Rune Alignment
by poppyfoxcroft
Summary: WARNING, chapters 27, 28 and 29 contain explict, graphic, sexual images. Chapters 30 and on may contain strong, coarse language.
1. Chapter 1

3

Rune Alignment

Chapter 1

"Rune alignment is correct. Language and syntax are appropriate to the time. Carbon dating will confirm the age of the stone. My preliminary assessment is that the artifact is authentic." Dr. Gleason Wintermantle snapped off the latex gloves after returning the plate-size flat stone to its padded box.

"What about the context of the writing? Shipping off the north coast of what is now Scotland was dangerous and infrequent at that time. Why does this stone say otherwise?"

Bobby Goren stood silently at the back of the conference room during Wintermantle's entire presentation, until now.

Perplexed, she turned to look at him, as did Deakins and Eames. "I'm not sure the stone contradicts that," she replied.

Goren looked steadily at the professor. She was smart – really, really smart, articulate. Easy to look at, too – probably an inch or two under six-foot, trim, with a mass of reddish curls barely kept under control in some sort of twist. Her voice, though, that did it for him. Her voice was deep for a woman, silky deep, almost husky, with a whisper of an accent. He wanted to keep her talking.

"Well, not 'contradict' exactly. Maybe 'belies the validity of fact'?" Bobby countered.

Wintermantle was about to rebut when Deakins interrupted, "Enough, we're not going to debate the minutia. Dr. Wintermantle has indicated that the evidence is authentic and will verify that with additional examination. That is all we needed to know right now. Thank you Dr. Wintermantle, we will be in touch if we need to. An officer will show you downstairs."

"I'll show you the way," Goren offered, grabbed his portfolio from the table, and stepped to open the door. Dr. Wintermantle shook hands with Eames and Deakins, picked up her bag and crossed to the door.

"Well, we have our evidence," Deakins said to Eames, "Call Carver." She nodded and Deakins left the conference room. Eames watched her partner walk away with the good professor. There he goes, she thought.

"I'd like to continue our conversation sometime if you'd like to," Goren said as they walked the short distance to the elevators. Was that cinnamon? "I mean, maybe over dinner? On the other hand, I could cook and you could come to my place, or at your place. I'm a pretty good cook with some things." Why couldn't he stop talking? He sounded like an awkward fifteen-year-old talking to the prettiest girl in school. He felt himself starting to sweat. This was not like him at all.

He did not notice when Wintermantle had stopped walking three steps back. "Detective," she said. Goren halted, looked up and stepped back to her side. His face was pink and he could not make eye contact. "Detective, I would love to have the chance to duel this out with you; but I will overwhelmingly prove you wrong. I suggest you concede right here." Goren finally looked up. Her grin spoke volumes.

"Alright, I . . . I, um . . .," Goren's right hand clutched his portfolio to his chest like a life ring while his left hand chopped at the air as he tried to find the words, any words.

Wintermantle laid a hand on his right arm. "Detective Goren, are you asking me out?"

A quick glance up and then a sheepish, "Yes."

"How about we start with coffee? Tomorrow evening? My class ends at 8:30. Is that too late"

"No, no that's fine. That's good." He could breathe again.

"Where shall I meet you?"

"I'll come by the University and pick you up. Where is your class? I'll wait for you."

"You don't have to do that. I'll have my car. I'll meet you somewhere. " she said.

"No, I want to," Goren worried that he was pleading.

"Alright, but we'll have to take both cars," Wintermantle negotiated.

"That's a good compromise. Where will I find you?"

"I'm on the second floor of Belzberg Hall, right off . . . "

"I know it," he interrupted. "Second floor, right. Eight thirty."

The elevator doors opened for the second time and Wintermantle stepped inside, turned, and smiled that smile. Goren's breath caught in his chest and he waved. The doors closed and he felt like that fifteen-year-old when the pretty girl said yes.

"So, you get your date?" Eames asked when Goren returned to his desk.

"What?"

"Are you going to go out with her?"

"Actually, we're going to meet to discuss the discrepancy I believe appears in the stone," Goren responded, not looking at Eames, busy sorting through his portfolio.

"Oh, is that what it is, a scholarly discussion over some obscure detail that means nothing in the big picture and is probably moot anyway," Eames answered with more edge than she intended.

Goren looked questioningly at his partner. "Are you upset that I want to have an intelligent discussion with an expert?"

"I'm not upset about anything. Can we change the subject? Carver is on his way over to get the reports on the artifact and begin the paperwork. You want to get your stuff in order so I can get everything organized and you can go get ready for your date?" Ouch, that edge is sharp, she thought.

"You started it," he muttered. Then, "Eames, it's not a date. It's a conversation and it's not tonight. OK?"

"OK, fine," Eames started sorting papers with energy that would have ripped lesser paper. Goren returned his attention to his portfolio and grinned at the thought that Eames might be jealous. He smiled outright at the thought of tomorrow night.


	2. Chapter 2

7

Rune Alignment

Chapter 2

"I swear to God, if you don't stop looking at your watch every five seconds and sighing, I'm gonna rip it right off your wrist and throw it in the river. At least stop sighing," Eames erupted as they sat in traffic.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know I was doing it. I'll stop," Goren said.

"Thank you."

Silence hung on them like a wet sheet. They had been on the way to a scene when a truck overturned on the 59th Street Bridge. Traffic was a standstill. Blocked on all sides by other cars, the SUV had nowhere to go.

"Why don't you call in that we're parked on the bridge and it ain't looking good?" Eames offered.

Goren made the call and suggested that another team head out. No telling how long they would be on the bridge.

Eames looked at her partner with disbelief, "Why did you suggest they send another team? This is our assignment. You want to give it away; just like that? God, Goren."

"Eames, the scene may be corrupted by the time we get there. We could be here for hours. They can't wait for us," he replied. Her exasperation was palatable. A few minutes of silence then, "What's with you, anyway? You've been acting weird ever since the museum investigation started. What's wrong?"

Eames shifted in the driver's seat and said nothing. She did not want to say anything about anything because she did not trust what she might say. She hated being like this. It wasn't professional. It wasn't like her. It made her appear weak and preoccupied. Moreover, she didn't know if Bobby was savvy enough to figure out that her behavior was a result of the green-eyed monster. How could she let herself be jealous of that professor woman? Wintermantle was brilliant and beautiful, but Eames never thought another woman's looks and mind could intimidate her. Come on, admit it, it was the way Bobby reacted to Wintermantle. Alex had never seen him so struck by a woman. Of course, he thought he was being cool and not showing any reaction. Eames knew him so well; she could practically read his mind.

Among many, many other things, Goren was the most courteous man Eames had ever known. He always stood when a woman entered the room, always got the door, held the chair – all those little things men used to do without thinking. All the little things that made a woman feel so special; that made Eames feel so special when Bobby did those things for her. Alex had watched Bobby when Wintermantle entered the conference room, the look on his face.

Deakins, Bobby and she had been in the conference room, going over the information and photos of the museum theft or switch, whichever it turned out to be, waiting for the ancient languages expert, a Dr. Gleason Wintermantle, who was now about ten minutes late.

Deakins glanced at the wall clock and said, "I wonder where he is. I've got a meeting with upstairs in about forty minutes."

"He'll be here," Bobby mumbled, continuing to write. "You know how these absent minded professors are." He kept writing as the conference room door opened and a tall good-looking woman was ushered in.

"I am so sorry. Traffic. Please forgive me. I'm Gleason Wintermantle," she said with her hand out to Deakins. At the sound of the deep, throaty voice, Eames saw Bobby's head shoot up, stare for a second, his mouth open and then rise simultaneously with Deakins. Bobby lit up, came around the table and moved in closely to take Wintermantle's hand. He set his left hand over hers; did he hold it just a wee bit long?

Eames rose slightly as she shook the good professor's hand. Bobby and Deakins both reached to pull out the chair next to Deakins, nearly nudging each other out of the way. Bobby had the advantage and got his hand on the back first. He pulled out the chair and reached out his left arm to escort her to her seat. Deakins stepped back and held out his arm as well. Wintermantle passed along in front of the two and took the seat. Bobby kept his hand on the back of her chair a nanosecond too long. Eames saw him take a deep breath; did he actually sniff her?

Eames watched these two juggle this woman, smiled, and shook her head. That was when Bobby removed himself to the credenza at the far end of the room. Deakins seemed to shoot him a questioning look, and then turned his full attention to the expert.

Alex watched Bobby watch the good professor. He never took his eyes off her; he barely blinked. At other interviews like this, he might be at the conference table with everyone else, listening attentively, taking copious notes and then entering the conversation with question after question, examining every angle. But not this time; this time, it was different.

Eames knew she was jealous. And she hated that about herself. How long were they going to sit here?

"Eames?"

"Goren, can we just sit here and enjoy silence? Please? I really don't want to talk."

"OK." What is going on with her, he wondered.

On the job, Goren could see what others missed, connect what seemed incongruent, and perceive emotions people didn't even know they felt. Combined, these traits made him a brilliant interrogator and a gifted profiler. In circumstances not related to work, however, he was awkward. Goren appeared unable to recognize and interpret social signals when he was a variable in an unfamiliar social situation. The incalculable responsive options one might make in those situations staggered him and rendered him incoherent. His circle of friends was small and tight, each of them a lot like Goren – a little odd. His work colleagues made up another set of comfortable interactions. He rarely dated, and when he did there was seldom a second date.

Content with himself, he spent his time reading, thinking, and brooding. He played chess with a machine and poker with his friends, worked out and listened to music. He liked Weihenstephanuer Hefe Weiss bier, a cloudy wheat German beer, and pastrami sandwiches, even though they gave him heartburn. And, he knew his way around a kitchen. That was pretty much it.

Eames appeared to be dozing. Goren's thoughts slid toward the professor. He had never met anyone like her. She was perfect: smart, pretty, and that voice – and she smelled like cinnamon. She seemed nice. After all, she didn't bolt or seem freaked out by his awkwardness. He cringed as he reran that scenario in his mind. What a jerk, he thought. Maybe he'd take flowers tonight. Keep them in his car until they got to where they were going and then give them to her as he met her at her car. No, it's too soon, it would seem anxious, rushing –no flowers.

A silent hour and half later, traffic began to move and Goren roused Eames. "Wake up sleepy head, we're moving." Goren called to check the status of the crime scene. "We need to get there," he told Eames, "They want us to go over the scene again and re-interview the witnesses." Eames proceeded without a word.

At the scene, Eames slipped back into partner mode, with no attitude, and they worked as one. They discussed the case on the way back to One Police Plaza where their paperwork was completed and filed. This would be a straightforward case. Maybe Eames was over whatever was bugging her.


	3. Chapter 3

5

Rune Alignment

Chapter 3

"Have a good time tonight," Eames said to Goren as she took her keys from her bag. Goren barely looked up from his portfolio, nodded, and mumbled, "Yeah, you too. Bye."

At six twenty, Goren had to decide whether to go home and change or stay and finish up. Nearly two hours left, hmmm, what to do? He had to admit, he was excited about tonight. Part of him said go get cleaned up. Look nice, smell nice. Impress her. However, she would be in clothes she had worn all day. She might feel funny about that. Do not do anything to mess this up. Stay here, do work, and then go. He ran his hand over his face, the stubble was not too bad, besides, some women liked that about a man; they thought it was manly. He pulled off his tie, folded it, clipped it with his tie bar, and slipped it into his pocket. Unbuttoned the top button, and felt ready to go.

Goren set out for the University at seven forty-five. He drove straight to Belzberg Hall but didn't know where to park. He drove around, decided to park in the closest faculty lot, and put his "OPB" card in the window. Not supposed to do that kind of thing, but. . . He entered the building at eight o'clock and walked to the second floor. Faculty offices sat half way down on the right. He tried the reception door, locked as he expected. Nothing to do, but wait, he thought. A classroom door opened further down on the right. Students emptied into the hallway and started his way. Goren walked up the hall, through the group to the classroom door.

There she was, talking to two students, gathering her things as they talked. Look at her, she laughed at something funny, throwing her head back. Like an exquisite, rare butterfly, Goren watched her. The two students left and she continued gathering her things. Still he watched. Wintermantle lugged up her bag, turned and saw him standing there, watching.

Again, her smile spoke volumes. "Oh! Hello, Detective, have you been waiting long?"

"No, perfect timing. Here, let me carry that for you."

"Ah, a gentleman, that's nice. Thank you," she said and handed over the heavy bag; Goren took it as if it weighed nothing. "I just need to stop by my office so I can drop this off and get my wrap. Then we'll be off."

She is so nice, thought Goren as they walked to the offices. Wintermantle unlocked the reception office door and flipped on the light.

"My office is down this way. Here we are." Small, like the others he guessed, her office was on the left with two narrow windows that looked out on Selman Drive. Loaded, floor to ceiling bookshelves lined two walls. Her desk held a laptop, a stack of folders, an old desk lamp, and not much more. A peek into her work world showed a tidy, cozy, scholarly and professional space. She stepped around her desk while Goren stood in the doorway.

"Where should I put this?" Goren asked.

"Just set it on that chair, thank you. I'll get my wrap and purse." She pulled a leather shoulder bag from a desk drawer.

Goren saw a cape-like thing hanging on an old iron hook and asked, "Is this your wrap?"

"That's it," she smiled and came around from her desk. He held the wrap for her and she chuckled, "You are the gentleman. I like that. Actually, this end is the top and it goes like this." Goren had the thing upside down and inside out. "Here, let me," she offered and took the wrap from him. He let go as she took it and looked sheepish, huge hands trying to help, but touching nothing. "It is quite a contraption to navigate until you get used to it." She turned the wrap and pulled it around her. "There we are. Ready?" Her voice, like dark syrup.

He nodded and stepped out; she flipped off the lights and locked the door. She repeated the actions at the reception door and they started down the hall.

"Where did you park? I forgot to mention where you should go."

"I found a spot in the faculty lot on Lowell. I put the "Official Police Business" card in the window, Goren said. "I thought that lot might be where you park."

"Good for you, that's exactly where I park," she said as they exited the building and started toward the lot.

"Hey, Dr. Wintermantle, wait up a sec," a voice called from behind them.

Goren and Wintermantle both stopped and turned. A young man trotted up and asked,

"Hey, Dr. Wintermantle, I was wondering about that scroll you showed this evening. I wanted to ask you . . ."

Wintermantle interrupted, "Elliott, I'm on my way out. You'll have to make an appointment for us to discuss this when we both have more time. Call Gina to set a time, all right? Good night." Wintermantle turned and began to walk away. Goren turned with her.

"Hey, aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" Elliott called.

"Keep walking. Don't turn around," she whispered.

"Do you want me to send him away?" Goren asked.

"Dr. Wintermantle?" Elliott hollered.

"No, no. He'll stop. Let's keep going."

"Ok, Dr. Wintermantle, I'll call and make an appointment, 'night." Elliott hollered. He stood and watched the pair continue to the parking lot. "Whore bitch," he muttered under his breath.

"Who is that guy, one of your students? Is he bothering you?" Goren asked.

Wintermantle sighed, "He is a student. In fact, he is in every one of my classes this semester. I think he has a crush on me, that's all. There's my car." They walked up to an old silver Volvo in excellent condition. "Where are you? And, where are we going?"

"I'm right over there in the green SUV," Goren replied, pointing. "Get in, lock your doors and then follow me, ok?"

"Ok, I'll be right behind you."

Goren led her to a coffee shop in the East Village. They parked around back and walked down the alley to the front. He held the door for her.

"Bobby! How the hell are ya? Haven't seen you in ages," shouted a man who appeared to be the owner, or manager, or head server, maybe the cook as he made his way to the door.

"Hey, Dickie, I'm fine, how are you?" Goren and Dickie shook hands with an added quick embrace as men do. Wintermantle stood and watched a completely different side of Goren. Here was a man confident and at ease with this friend of his. In her office, he was shy and fumbling. On the way to the car, she saw the strong, professional, assured side of him. This guy has many facets. And, his name is Bobby, huh? Sweet.

"Who is this lovely lady?" Dickie asked.

"This is Dr. Gleason Wintermantle." And to her, "This is Dickie, proprietor of this fine establishment."

Dickie shook Wintermantle's hand and then kissed the back of it. "Doctor, huh? Are you his shrink?" he laughed.

"I'm delighted to meet you, Dickie. No, I. . ."

Goren cut her off with, "Dr. Wintermantle is helping the department with a case. Where can you put us so it will be quiet?"

"Why don't you take your old booth? It's quiet and cozy. Let me get you some menus."

With his hand on the small of her back, Goren guided Wintermantle to the second booth from the back wall. "Give me your wrap and I'll hang it up here." He hung both coats on the hook. She slid in facing the back wall; he took the bench facing the front door.

"This is your old booth? Is there a story?" Wintermantle asked with a raised brow.

With a shy grin, he said, "I used to come here with some buddies a long time ago. There's really no story."

Her cell phone rang inside her bag. "Oh, I'm sorry, let me turn this off," she said she dug it out.

"You should at least see who it is," Goren suggested. "It might be important."

Wintermantle flipped open the phone, looked at the number and said, "I don't know this number."

"Answer it, then."

"Hello? Yes, speaking." Wintermantle listened, frowned and then said, "Who is this?" She flipped the phone shut, turned it off and returned it to her bag.

"Is everything ok?" Goren asked.

"It was a wrong number, that's all."

"But he asked for you by name, didn't he? You said, 'Yes, speaking.' Let me see the phone number." She plucked the phone from her bag, turned it back on and handed it over. "This is a pay phone number. What do you make of this?"

"Really, Detective, it is nothing. A mistake, a prank, nothing. Let's not give it any more time, alright?"

Goren looked at her deeply for several heartbeats, gave her the phone and said, "Call me Bobby."

Dickie returned with the menus and said with a smile, "It's on the house if it's nothing more than pie and coffee," and returned to his post up front.

Goren looked at this beautiful woman across from him. "Are you sure you don't want me to look into this?"

"No, really. I'm going to have tea. They have tea here, don't they?"


	4. Chapter 4

Rune Alignment

Chapter 4.

"Oh, good grief, it's twenty of twelve," Wintermantle exclaimed. "I've got an early class tomorrow morning. I need to go."

"I didn't think it was that late," said Goren as he checked his watch. "I'll follow you home." He slid out of the booth, drew several bills from his money clip, set them on the table, and held out his hand to help her up. Ah, a whiff of cinnamon as her head passed in front of him as she rose.

"That's really not necessary, Detec-- Bobby," she countered. "My apartment is not far from the University."

"No, I'm following you." Goren reached for her wrap and held it out for her, right end up this time. She turned and let him lay it around her shoulders. He was like a wall behind her, tall, and broad, strong; and a bit close. Nice. Goren let his hands linger on her shoulders for a heartbeat. She was just the right height. He drank in her scent. What makes cinnamon so sexy? How is it that she smells like that?

"I suppose there is no arguing with you," Wintermantle gave in.

"Not really," he smiled, put a hand at the small of her back and followed her to the door. "Night Dickie, see you again," Goren called to his friend who waved to Goren and blew a kiss to Wintermantle.

Goren followed her back to the University area. She is unbelievable, he thought, fascinating and funny. That voice, God. He felt a twinge in his pants as he thought over the previous hours. Do not mess this up, he told himself.

Wintermantle signaled a left turn into an apartment alleyway several blocks past campus. They parked and he walked to her car. "Well, here I am, home, safe and sound," she said as he held out a hand to help her from her car. They stood nearly face-to-face, looking deeply at each other, silent. Maybe just a little too close for propriety's sake. Goren wanted to taste her lips. He wanted to take her face in his hands and take her mouth in his. He could see it happen in his mind. She looked like she wanted him to. The way she looked at him. Maybe she was thinking, wanting, the same thing. It would be so good, so natural. A twitch in his pants.

Maybe not, though, maybe she didn't want the same thing and he only thought she did because he wanted her to, wanted it to happen. She might be frightened if he made the move too early. She would not want to see him again, would avoid him, and it would be over before it began. Do not mess this up, he reminded himself.

"Let me walk you to the door," he said, and the moment was over. Again, with his hand in the small of her back, he guided her to the door of the apartment house.

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Bobby." Looking at each other. Standing close. Smelling her. Goren thinking again, that pant-twitch again, wanting it, last chance.

"I'd like to do this again some time," Bobby said as he moved his hands to her arms and didn't even know he did it. More silent looking, more silent thinking.

Finally, "Would, would you like to come up?" she said tentatively. She said it; she said it, she invited him to her apartment.

"Yes," he whispered deeply. "But I can't. It's late and we both have to go to work in the morning. Next time."

"Alright, then, another time. Thank you again, Bobby. Good night." He watched through the glass front doors as she entered the small lobby, crossed to the elevator, pushed the button, turned and waved. The elevator doors opened and in she stepped.

Goren stood for a few moments, not wanting to leave, breathing in the air she had breathed, catching a whiff of her scent. Slowly he returned to his car. He saw lights came on in the top floor, back corner apartment. He took his cell and entered her home number from the back of the business card she had given him earlier. She answered on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"I just wanted to make sure you got in alright."

"You are the gentleman. Thank you so much. Good night."

Goren drove to his place with a smile on his face. He had never felt like this before. It was almost adolescent; almost cliché. So, this is what that kind of happiness feels like. It's good.

He thought back over the preceding hours, sitting there with her. They actually did discuss the discrepancy he thought he saw in the authentication. But it became very clear very early that he was wrong, as he knew he would be. He'd asked the question during the interview just to keep her talking to hear that voice.

From there they talked about her professional life. He learned that she was widely traveled because of her work. She had served a number of times as an expert witness in the US, the UK, Italy and Germany. She was a licensed authenticator of ancient Western European artifacts and writings. She was a linguist of ancient written languages and had consulted on the written language that appeared a three-part epic film a few years ago. She held degrees from Cambridge and the Universities of Manchester and Edinburgh. She had taught at several places including Oxford. She had three books in print and was currently working on another. She drank chamomile tea and did not eat pie of any kind. He still did not know much about her personally. They did not talk about his life.

He locked the SUV and entered his building, stopping to pick up his mail from the box. He didn't even look at it, so entrenched in his thoughts about her. He climbed to his floor and entered his apartment. Had Goren believed he dreamt, he would have hoped his dreams would allow him to relive this evening. He fell asleep grinning.


	5. Chapter 5

19

Rune Alignment

Chapter 5

"Thanks," Eames said to the assistant who handed her several sheets of paper. She looked through them. "The lab results are back," Eames informed her partner. Goren was immersed in folders.

"We've got to move this to the conference room," he replied with exasperation. "There's way too much stuff here. I thought you said this was going to be pretty straightforward." Goren loaded his arms with stacks of folders and headed to the conference room. He sorted the folders, removed certain photos from each one and began pinning them to the corkboard on the wall.

"Excuse me, Detective, Dr. Wintermantle is here to see you," an assistant said at the conference room door.

Goren looked up and through the door. Wintermantle stood by his desk. His grin grew into a smile as he walked toward her, but it faded as the distance closed between them. He extended his arm and touched her elbow "Gleason, what's wrong?"

"Bobby, I didn't know what to do, call the police or come to you."

"I am the police. Are you ok? Tell me what happened. Let's go in here." Goren led her across the short space to the conference room; hand still on her elbow. He closed the door, guided her to a chair, pulled one close beside her and said, "What's happened?"

Gleason took a breath and began, "Last night, after you called, I checked for phone messages. It was full. Bobby, every message had the same angry voice, but it sounded weird, like the person was having some kind of problem breathing or talking. The messages were horrible, vicious. Then I checked my cell phone. It listed sixteen missed calls from four different phone numbers. Each message had the same, weird voice and each message was worse than the previous. My cell holds only ten messages. After the strange call at the coffee shop . . . I am a little frightened."

Goren said nothing, stared into her eyes, head cocked to the left. Gleason stared back.

On the table, he covered her left hand with his and gave it a squeeze. "Was it the same voice from the call at the coffee shop?"

"I, I couldn't tell, maybe."

"Were the calls from a man or a woman?"

"A man."

"Did you recognize him? Someone you know?"

"No! I would have said that first."

"Ok, ok," Goren gave her hand another squeeze. "Do you have any idea who it might be? What about that student, Elliot?"

"I don't know. Elliott's harmless." Goren watched as her eyes filled. It only made her eyes bigger, bluer. He reached in his back pocket and handed her his handkerchief.

"Did you bring your cell?"

"Yes, here."

"I want to hear one of the messages." Goren punched a few buttons and put the phone to his ear. He listened, stood, began to pace; he closed his eyes and rubbed them as he listened to the sick talk. This woman is in real danger, he thought. The message was vile and threatening. He did not dare look at her lest she see his concern. "I have to talk with Deakins. Wait here," he said, taking her cell with him.

Wintermantle watched him stride to Deakins office. Through the glass office walls, she observed them talk, noticed Deakins glance her way. Bobby's hands were moving, but not chopping. She saw Bobby hand the cell to Deakins who put it to his ear. She could not be sure, but Deakins' expression suggested disgust. More talk, then they both headed toward the conference room.

"Eames, join us," Deakins said as they passed her desk. Eames stood and followed them.

"Dr. Wintermantle, good to see you. Sorry it had to be this way," Deakins offered his hand and she took it with a nod. Deakins sat across the table from her. Bobby closed the conference room door behind him and took his previous seat close beside her; Eames sat beside Deakins. "Detective Goren has briefed me on these calls. I've listened to one. Are they all similar?"

Deakins slid the phone to Eames and indicated she should listen to one. Revulsion registered as she listened; oh God, Eames thought, this lady is in real trouble. Eames felt concern for the professor's life. Forget jealousy.

"Yes. Each successive message seems to get uglier and more vicious. Who would do this? For what possible reason?"

Ignoring her questions, Goren asked, "Has anyone ever been disappointed or angered by an authentication you made?"

"Disappointed, certainly; not everything I examine is genuine. It may not be an outright fake; frequently an artifact turns out to be something other than originally thought – a later era, different culture, different language. Often, that means it is worth much less than anticipated. Collectors and curators encounter this kind of situation from time to time. I don't know that anyone was ever actually angered, not at me anyway. I'm just the messenger."

"Those times you served as an expert witness," Goren asked, "was your testimony ever the determining factor in the case? Anyone ever convicted on your evidence?"

"Well, yes, several times; most recently for fraud, once in Berlin and once in London. In each case, the sentences were long. Those people are still in prison."

Deakins asked, "What about a disgruntled student? Goren tells me one of your students has some sort of crush on you. He's kind of persistent, obsessive, almost? Could this person be moved to do something like this?"

"No, no. Elliott is harmless. He's just, he's . . . It's not him." She sounded depleted and about to cry.

Without hesitation, without thinking about propriety, as naturally as could be, Goren put a hand to her shoulder, fingers reaching her neck, slightly massaging; something completely verboten with another witness or victim. Both Goren and Eames noticed the move. "Ok, it's ok. Just a few more questions," Bobby said softly.

Clearing his throat, Deakins began, "Dr. Wintermantle is there someone in your past, a lover, perhaps, who is capable of this, wanting to frighten you, exact revenge, maybe?"

Wintermantle's eyes averted and she looked at her hands in her lap, fooling with Bobby's handkerchief. She felt Bobby's strong, long fingers gently working her neck. She closed her eyes; that feels so good. She said nothing. She was quiet too long.

"Dr. Wintermantle?" Deakins urged.

She kept her head bowed, afraid to move. She felt Bobby's fingers stop rubbing; felt his hand slide away, down her back. He continued to stare at her. Slowly he bent over in his chair, lowering his head so he could look up into her eyes. He saw it there, absolute terror. "Gleason?" he whispered. She met his eyes, locked, and her head followed as he raised his.

She heaved a sigh, then slowly, almost to herself, as if she were processing a string of thoughts, "No . . . No . . . It isn't. . . . Cli- . . . he would not do this. He couldn't. Not him. Not to me . . . Oh, oh God." Then, the tears fell. She clutched Bobby's handkerchief to her face and the tears turned to sobs.

Goren glanced back at Deakins, his face dark with pain. Deakins and Eames rose and closed the door as they left.

Deakins and Eames stood talking a few steps outside the glass door. Both looked back at the pair inside, watching Goren and Wintermantle at the table. They saw Bobby slide an arm around Gleason, move his chair closer and lean into her.

"So, what do you make of it?" Eames asked her captain.

"Make of which, her calls or his behavior? She's been threatened and is at genuine risk. Goren's treading a thin, thin line with his feelings. He's not treating her like any vic off the street. He would never touch someone like that. For God's sake, he just met her two days ago. Look at him. I've never seen a guy fall so hard so fast. I want you to stay close on this case. You'll probably be working it with Sledge." Eames and Deakins looked back one more time and went back to work.

She felt thin, drawn. Cinnamon again, he thought. She didn't cry long. She pulled away, straightened up. His arm fell away and he moved slightly back in his chair. A few stray sobs punctuated the following silence.

"I am so sorry. Forgive me for that melt down. I'm stronger than that." She wiped her face with his handkerchief and blew her nose. Another sob and a glance at his face, "I am so embarrassed."

His face was dark, pained. She watched his eyes move over every inch of her face, finding their way back to her eyes. With the thumb of his left hand, he wiped a tear from her jaw, his fingertips on her neck. God how he wanted to lick his thumb, taste her salt. Pull her face to his mouth. Taste her. He did nothing and said nothing.

"What?" she finally asked.

"Who is Clive?"


	6. Chapter 6

22

Rune Alignment

Chapter 6.

"It's not Clive, Bobby. I know it is not him," Gleason responded.

"Just tell me who he is," Bobby persisted.

Gleason looked back at his handkerchief she still held in her lap. Oh, God, what do I say, she wondered. It isn't Clive. Please don't let it be Clive, she thought. She began to shiver.

"Who is he?" Bobby said gently.

A shuddering sigh and then, "Clive and I were together for more than six years. It ended very badly and I came to America."

"So you were lovers. Why did you leave him?"

Another long pause, "I can't talk about this. Please Bobby. Trust me, Clive didn't make those calls. It has to be someone else." She couldn't look at him. No, no, no, no. The shiver became a tremble.

Goren stared at her, searching her face, her eyes. "What did he do to you? Tell me."

Her breath came in shallow gasps. Terror. Her stomach knotted as she recalled and began to relive the horrors in her mind. She was going to be sick.

"No, no. I can't. Please, I want to go home. Let me go home," she pleaded and started to rise. The trembling turned into a full-blown shake.

Goren felt her rising panic. "Alright, alright. I'll take you home." He stood with her, his hands on her arms. He wanted to embrace her, hold her close, kiss her, keep her safe. He could do none of that, not here.

She pushed him away, "No, no, no! Leave me alone."

"Gleason, please, it's not safe. Let me go with you," now he was pleading.

She took her purse and headed out the door, toward the elevators.

Goren knew better than to follow her.

Bobby sat in the conference room, for the first time not knowing what to do. Too many emotions coursed through his mind and heart. He couldn't grab a thread. His big picture brain was overwhelmed. This was unlike any other case. He could not detach from the host of emotional connections to this woman. A torrent of feelings streamed through his mind. Fear for her safety. The need to find who was doing this to her, to catch that person – this Clive – and remove him from her life, from their lives was nearly overpowering. Not just arrest him, destroy the caller, make him pay for what he had done to Gleason, and was now doing again.

Although Goren had only listened to one message, he was able to begin a profile. The voice on the phone was male, no accent – although it was almost impossible to tell with the nearly garbled sounds and gasps of air. Goren knew what that was. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, arms resting on the table, nearly sick to his stomach as he heard the voice again in his head, disgusting and dangerous.

The threats were real, detailed and made by an extremely angry individual. Gleason knew who this person was, he was sure of it. Her sobbing at the beginning of the interview indicated a subconscious realization that the threats were genuine. On some level, she recognized the behavior. Her mind told her the danger was familiar, but shielded her from consciously acknowledging it. It only occurred to Gleason who this person was as the questioning progressed. After eliminating all the possibilities, as the field of likely suspects narrowed, she became of aware who it could be; and it terrified her. Her reaction was typical of posttraumatic stress syndrome. The building terror, shivering escalating to shaking, shallow, rapid breathing, the flight response, it all indicated she had begun to re-experience whatever horrible ordeal she had lived. The thought of that possibility recurring was too much. So she fled.

Bobby figured Gleason had gone to her apartment, she was too fearful to go anywhere else. Her apartment was safe, familiar, a haven – the only place she really had besides her office. However, the university was now a minefield of potential danger. He had her cell phone and he knew she would be too afraid to answer her home phone. She might even unplug that phone so she would not hear it ring, would not know if the caller was trying to get to her again. She would stay inside, isolating herself from all possibilities, retreating.

He had to find whoever was threatening her. He would let nothing happen to her. Bobby knew she was different from every other woman the second Gleason walked through the conference room door the day before yesterday. Her beauty astounded him of course. More of her became apparent -- her voice, her confidence, her intelligence – as she presented her analysis of the relic. He knew there had never been another like her. He had been so afraid to ask her out.

Goren was well aware of his social limitations. It had always been hard to make friends, especially as a child. He was never quite sure how people would be, what they would say or do. Once that initial meeting was over, however, and if it went well, he was fine. Then he was confident and strong, a good friend. He learned young how to scope out people, determine if they were ok or not. As an adult, he learned that his awkwardness in social situations, his uncertainty, stemmed from his insecurity about how his mother would react when he'd get home from school, or wake up in the morning, or even minute to minute. His early life was like walking on thin ice, he never knew when his mom would crack, or what would cause it. His ability to read people became a gift on the job. On the job, at a scene, or interrogating a suspect, Goren could interview with finesse, no sign of uncertainty because nothing was at stake but the job. Work wasn't social, work was work.

He'd felt like a goofy kid trying to ask Gleason out, fumbling, trying to get the words out. But she understood, was kind, threw him a rope. Her smile, God. And she had even suggested the date! Coffee with her last night showed him additional delightful sides of her. She was funny; so smart about so many things. And so nice, just so nice, no pretense. He wanted to know more. Discover all the other things about her. He had to protect her. Find this crazy bastard and make her safe. He did not want to mess this up.

Immediately his plan of action took form in his mind. Goren knew exactly what to do, the sequence of tasks. He stood and left the conference room.

"Eames, we need to talk," Goren said as he stepped over his chair and sat across from his partner.

Eames looked up from the folders she was organizing, saw the pain on his face and said, "What's this all about? I tried to piece it together, but too many parts are missing for me. What's the story?"

Bobby filled in the gaps. He explained about the student Elliot and shared what he knew about this Clive fellow. Eames listened quietly, looked at those dark eyes, then asked, "You love her, don't you?"

"What?" Bobby exploded, he could not believe his ears. "Are you . . .? What does . . .? For God's sake, Eames . . ." He was incredulous. With volume rising, "Haven't you heard a word I've said? The woman is in danger. You heard what this guy said he'd do to her. He's crazy. Did you hear that voice? You know what he was doing? Why he sounded like that? He was masturbating!"


	7. Chapter 7

22

Rune Alignment

Chapter 7.

Ok, that last part was just a little too loud, and everyone within earshot turned and looked.

Bobby shot up from his chair, looked around at those staring at him, and glared. In an instant, everyone found what he or she was doing of utmost fascination. He had to get away from here. He strode to the men's room. Inside, he waited for the guy already there to finish and leave. Once the door swung shut, Bobby flipped the dead bolt, locking himself in the restroom alone. He went to a sink and leaned over it, palms on the front corners. He looked up at himself in the mirror. He was a mess; it was just past ten Friday morning and he looked like he'd pulled an all-nighter. He moved to a urinal, finished, flushed, washed his hands and splashed water on his face. Tossing paper towels into the can he hollered, "Alright, alright. I'm coming," to the knocking on the locked restroom door. He scowled at the fellow on the other side as he barged past.

Back at his desk, Bobby shoved aside the folders from their current case, a body in a trunk with diamonds, he and Eames had both laughed at the Beatle song case tag.

He opened Gleason's cell and began to listen to the rest of the messages. The depraved words, some barely decipherable, sickened him. He wiped his face and rubbed his eye. Message after message, each one sicker and sicker. The caller kept talking, filling the two minutes allotted per message; sharing the sounds from his sexual pleasures, giving voice to his orgasms, describing the horrors he planned to foist upon Wintermantle. After the third message, Goren could sit no longer and began to pace. He began to mutter under his breath during the fifth.

Deakins interrupted Goren's disgust with a signal to come here.

"Shut the door." Deakins said as Goren entered the captain's office. "I don't want an argument from you on what I'm about to say. Wintermantle's case is going to Eames and Sledge. You and Bishop work the trunk case."

Goren's whole body reacted, he spun, arms flailing, "No!" he shouted. "This is my case. I interviewed her. I know how to proceed."

"Detective, it's obvious you have strong feelings for this woman," Deakins returned. Goren said nothing and glared at his boss with arms crossed.

"Come on, Bobby. You were sitting way too close; you couldn't keep your hands off her. You would never do that, nor would I tolerate it, with another vic. The tension between you two is evident. You are too involved."

"I can remain detached," Goren replied darkly. "Eames and Sledge can take the trunk case. This is mine."

"I'm sorry, Bobby; you are off this one. Go brief Eames and Sledge. Not another word."

Goren swung open the door, strode to his desk, slammed down an open fist and loudly muttered, "Son of a bitch!" Like a child told no, he threw himself back in his chair and stretched out to sulk. Others in the office area glanced briefly at the outburst. Everyone was used to Goren's eruptions.

Eames knew better to interrupt one of his tantrums. So, the boss told Bobby he was off the professor's case and that she and Sledge would work it. She knew Bobby would be royally pissed when Deakins had told her outside the conference room. Alex knew Bobby like a brother, and knew he needed time to simmer. He'd been angry with the boss before, angry with her, but mostly angry with himself for not being able to control his temper. One time he confided that he was afraid of his own temper; he said when he dropped the leash that held his temper in check, it was out of his control and he did not know what he was capable of doing. Eames had seen him teeter on the edge of loosing it completely with a frustrating suspect or uncooperative witness. She had always been there to call him back, though. It must be exhausting, she thought, to have to curb yourself every minute.

She stole glances at him as she tried to work on the trunk case, getting it ready for Bobby and Bishop to take over. Fat chance of that, Eames thought. Bishop will have the lion's share of work to do. Bobby will not let the Wintermantle case go, she was sure of it.

Since he hadn't moved after a few minutes, Eames thought her partner might be cooling off. To test the waters she asked, "Everything ok?" He didn't even glance at her. Ok, maybe later. Eames gathered up the trunk case files she had intended to move to the conference room before the professor's drama began and so headed there now.

Goren stewed stretched out in his chair, muttering, right hand tucked in left armpit, left hand gesturing: first a fist on his lips, then waving and pointing; too many thoughts colliding at once, about too many things: Gleason, those calls, the voice, the threats, the danger she was in, and the investigation that he was now _not_ a part of! Gleason – how he felt when he saw her standing by his desk: pure joy, delight; how that changed as he drew closer and realized her fear; cold fear, burning apprehension. The serious danger she faced and didn't even know it, or maybe she did and it was worse than he thought. The phone calls – the quantity indicating a strong, unstoppable conviction. And he hadn't even heard the messages on Gleason's home phone yet. The voice in the messages – psychotic, deranged, sexually charged, full of vile hate, out of control at the end. The threats – this was the most frightening aspect of this whole thing; doable and vicious, detailed and progressive. The investigation, damn it! – make a list for Eames to be sure and do, miss nothing, stay on Eames, dog her.

Goren sat up, flipped open his portfolio, turned to a clean page and began to write Eames' to do list:

have Jerry in Audio secure a redirect bypass feed from Gleason's home phone; disable outgoing service

all incoming calls go directly to Jerry for tracing, taping and analysis

contact Gleason's phone service for taped copies of her messages; see Carver re a warrant

have Martin in Audio copy messages from cell phone and service to disc

have Martin voiceprint each message from cell and service

have Louise in Transcription do her thing with disc

give Huang at SVU an audio copy and transcription of all messages

have Huang profile the caller

pull in-system voiceprints matching profile from Huang

have Martin compare caller voiceprints with others that match caller's profile

get numbers from home caller ID

locate call sites from home and cell; pay phones?

map the sites

determine the site chronology

compare distance and time between calls

find out Elliott, the student's, last name; in the system?

let me know everything

That should get the investigation started, Goren thought. Eames is going to be furious when I give her this. Bobby looked up and saw Eames and Deakins in the conference room. He turned and saw Sledge heading this way down the hallway and Bishop was coming around the corner behind Sledge. Shit, Goren thought; he tore off the list he'd written and set it on Eames' desk. He grabbed his coat and headed out, passing both Sledge and Bishop.

"Hey, Goren, where're you . . ." Bishop called as he flew past.


	8. Chapter 8

26

Rune Alignment

Chapter. 8.

"Jerry," Bobby said to the head tech in Audio as he came up behind the guy with huge earphones and touched him on the shoulder.

"Bobby, my man! What brings you down here?" Jerry replied, taking the earphones from his head.

"I need a disposable cell for a vic. Just needs three speed numbers, a long lasting battery and an AC charger."

"Sure thing. Whatcha' been up to? Haven't seen you around much." Jerry was a poker buddy and good friend. It was true; Bobby had been keeping to himself more lately. He knew he'd been brooding. He would come home from work, change, eat junk, sit with a beer and think. He'd been thinking too much, and occasionally drinking too much. It wasn't healthy. He knew it. Then, forty-eight hours ago, Gleason entered his life. Don't mess this up.

"Working, mostly," Bobby lied. "I'll wait for that cell, if that's ok."

"No problem," Jerry answered as he moved to a shelf and retrieved a bin full of cell phones. "You got the paperwork with you? Just set it in the box over there."

"Yeah, well, Eames is going to bring it down later. I have to get this to the vic right away. That's not a problem, is it?"

"No, no problem. You and Eames . . . you two are like an old married couple. Ha, can you see that?" Jerry activated the three-number cell, pulled an adapter, wrote the cell's phone number on a card and slid the pile in front of the detective. Goren scooped up the items in his basket-like hands and said, "Thanks, Jerry. Gotta run."

"Hey, you gonna sign for that?" Jerry said to Bobby's back. Oh, well, Eames will sign for him. Just like a good wife.

Once in his green SUV, Bobby programmed his cell, home and direct line desk phone numbers into Gleason's new phone. Then he drove to her apartment.

Her Volvo was in the lot, just as he expected. Good. He parked and put the phone and charger in his coat pocket. She is not going to let me in; he knew it. He walked to the lobby door and saw the buzz box with the list of last names. She wasn't going to buzz him in. Wasn't going to answer his buzz in the first place. So, he pushed the button next to K. Samuels – no answer. L. Tomlinson, no answer. D. Barnovsky, no answer. Damn, everyone was out. He pushed C. Clemmons, "Who is it?" the box inquired.

"Hi, listen, I'm trying to reach Gleason Wintermantle and she's not answering her buzz, so I was wondering if . . ."

"She's probably not home."

"No, no, she's home, her car is in the parking lot. She canceled her classes today and I'm afraid she's sick. I want to check on her. That's all. I'm a friend and I'm worried about her. Please. I'm worried."

Hesitation, hesitation. Come on, do it; buzz the door.

"Well, I'm not sure . . ." the box replied.

"Really, I just want to make sure she's ok," Bobby tried his most sincere voice.

A buzz sounded and then the click. He pulled the door open and stepped into the small lobby. He scanned the mailboxes and saw 'G. Wintermantle, 5D.' He pushed the elevator button, the doors opened and up he went. Just as he figured, 5D was the back apartment on the right, overlooking the parking lot. A welcome mat sat outside her door.

He knocked. Nothing. He knocked again, leaned close to the door and said somewhat quietly, "Gleason, it's me, Bobby. Open the door." He stood back and looked at the door so she could see it was him through the peephole.

Nothing.

A little louder, "Gleason, come on. Let me in." Nothing, nothing, "Please. I'm not leaving until I see you." She was terrified, probably huddled on the couch or in her bed. She could hear him, the apartment wasn't that large. He imagined her small with fear. Not knowing what to do, fearing him at the door, thinking it might be the caller, come to get her. Watching the door, so afraid.

Nothing.

"I need to tell you what we're doing about the calls. You need to know what we're doing to your phone. I have a cell phone for you to use. Only I have the number. I've programmed my numbers in for you to call me."

Nothing. Nothing.

"Gleason . . . please . . . open the door." Bobby could hear no sounds inside the apartment. She might as well have been out, or asleep, or. . ." Instinctively his hand went to the weapon on his left hip.

Louder, "Gleason I need to know you're ok. Say something."

Silence.

"I'm going to kick in your door if you don't answer me."

Wait, wait . . . nothing.

"You know I'll do it." He knew he wouldn't. God, he hated to make threats.

He waited two more minutes and then said, "Gleason, I'm going to leave the cell phone and charger outside your door and then I'll go. I'm going to wait in my car until you call me. Just push 'speed one', that's my cell." He set the items on the floor against the door. He could have set them further away from the door, waited to the side until she opened the door and stepped out to reach them, and then he could quickly step into her doorway. That would just scare her. She'd never trust him after that. No, he'd do what he said, leave the phone and wait in the car. Bobby stood in front of her door again then walked to the elevator door. He figured the peephole viewed the entire narrow hallway area in front of her apartment including the elevator. Reluctantly, he pushed the button and the elevator door opened. He was sure she'd open the door now.

Nothing.

Bobby sat in his car holding his cell and waited. Call. Come on. Call me. Ring, damn it. He was able to see her apartment window from where he sat. He kept looking up, hoping she would pull back the curtain and look down. Nothing.

After five minutes, Bobby struggled with the decision to call or not call the new cell. Had she even retrieved the cell from outside her door? If it rang, would it trigger her terror? Don't call, leave her alone. Let her calm down enough to call him. Reluctantly, he started the engine and headed back to the office.

Gleason listened as Bobby begged her to open the door. She sat in the corner of her couch, knees to her chest, wrapped in a chenille throw. Her eyes were swollen, her face was blotched, her head pounded from crying.

How she had wanted to open the door. She was so tempted. Let him in, let him hold her; protect her. Bobby was wonderful, multi-dimensional on so many levels. His intelligence was what got her first. At the initial meeting about the artifact, Bobby never said a word until the end. His question about the context of the artifact and the apparent contradiction concerning the economic structures of the period and location was such an obscure yet accurate reference, how could he even know about that? What else did he know? His intelligence showed through during their "date" last night. He was almost shy about what he knew. His intellect was genuine, yet almost incidental.

He was a gentleman; how she missed the little things men once did. Like his intelligence, his gentility was natural, internalized, automatic and without pretense. She loved the way he looked at her, he studied her, drank her in; even last night, how he looked into her eyes when she spoke, she could see him listening to her. And today at his office, he was so tender, kind, worried. Now at her door, he was pleading with her, trying to protect her.

Stop it, she told herself. Stop now. You cannot get involved with this man. You don't know what lies beneath. You thought you knew Clive; lived with him for nearly seven years, how he insinuated himself into your very being. And look where you are now, thousand of miles away from your home, alone and with nothing. Stop it. You don't know this detective. Do not trust him. Do not trust yourself. You don't know what lies beneath.

Her mind wandered to the times with Clive, the good and the horrific, but she blanked on the bad; she could not relive those horrors. She was certain the calls were from him. How did he find her? What would she do now that he had found her? She knew he would do all that his calls had threatened and more. Slowly the horrors became real in her mind. The pain was real, the searing heat, her scars flared. She began to tremble, her breath became fast and shallow and she bolted for the toilet again.


	9. Chapter 9

29

Rune Alignment

Chapter 9.

"I cannot believe you left this to-do list," Eames told her partner with a mix of anger and hurt in her voice.

Goren had returned to One Police Plaza prepared to work the two cases at once. He needed Eames' cooperation to get it all done.

"Yeah, it's a start. Listen, I need you to do a few more things. Where's Sledge?" Bobby asked without even looking at her. "I want to brief the two of you on what I've already done and what's next." Still not looking at his partner, he sat down at this desk and started stacking folders.

Sledge approached with two cups of coffee, handing one to Eames. "Well, lover boy is back." Bobby stopped moving folders, stopped moving completely. He stared at nothing for three heartbeats, rose slowly, turned and faced Sledge. Eames set down the cup and moved beside both men. Bobby leaned into Sledge's face and Sledge took a step back. Eames put a hand on both men's arms. Bobby's hands were fists of rock, his forearms steel rods, his face the color of liver. Eames saw him about to loose control and take a swing at Sledge.

"Knock it off, both of you!" she said sharply. "Bobby, sit down. Sledge, shut up. Good God, you two." It took a full minute for Bobby to uncurl his fists, his color lightened and he sat, forcing himself to breathe slowly.

"Look man, I didn't mean anything by it; it's just that, well. . ." Sledge tried to make peace.

"Just _shut up_, why don't you," Eames interjected. Sledge shrugged and pulled up an extra chair beside her. "Bobby, tell us what you have so far," she suggested.

Bobby shared what he knew and what he had done: Dr. Wintermantle was at home, was not responding to him, and would probably not respond to anyone who came to her door. She would stay there for the present; he gave them her address and car info. "You'll have to fill out the paperwork on the cell phone I took to her, and sign for it."

"What's the cell's number?" asked Sledge.

"You won't need it," Bobby answered without looking at the man.

"What do you mean, we won't need it? How are we supposed to contact her? Jerry has already started the redirect on her home line. We can't reach her that way. You said she won't answer the door. What do you want us to do, knock the door down, haul her ass down here, and take her into protective custody?"

Eames watched Bobby's face as he ran through every device in his power trying to grab for the fringe of control before he could say or do anything. She knew how much Bobby hated Sledge, and the feeling was mutual. This was never going to work.

"You won't be contacting her. I will," Bobby said slowly, steadily, darkly.

"Bobby, you are not working this. Give me the number, I'll call her. She'll talk to a woman," Eames rationalized.

"Nobody contacts her but me, understand? She's been terrorized. The fewer contacts she has, the better. I need to get her to trust me so she'll give me information about this Clive person. She needs protection. I was able to get into her building in under a minute. Anyone can get to her. No, I'm the only one to contact her." Bobby flipped open his portfolio and started to write.

"This is bullshit," Sledge grumbled and started to rise.

"Have you listened to the calls?" Bobby asked Sledge.

"No, I was gonna do that later."

"Do it now. Then tell me this is bullshit." Bobby slid the phone to Sledge. "It should take about half an hour." Sledge took the phone and walked away.

"What else do we need to do?" Eames asked.

"What have you done so far?"

He walked to the corner, stood and lit a cigarette. He had seen the green SUV come and then leave. The man had been big, strong, confident. He looked like a copper, acted like a copper. The fellow had gotten inside the building quick enough; but she hadn't buzzed him in. No, the big cop had had to use clever cop talk to get inside; once in, he'd been upstairs fewer than ten minutes. She would not have let him inside her apartment. No, no, Gleason was afraid now, so afraid. He loved when she was afraid – the crystal look of her eyes, the transparent color of her skin. The smell she emitted. Her fear was so sweet yet tangy. He longed to lick her fear. Taste her. He began to harden and unknowingly groaned aloud. He heard himself, caught himself, not here, not on the street, no, no; later, later he would indulge.

Gleason's ribs and whole abdomen ached from dry heaves. She had nothing left to vomit, but her body didn't know, didn't care. Her head pounded with every heart beat. Her mouth was so dry. She couldn't stop shivering, couldn't get warm. She lay down on the couch. . .

"Honey, where are you?" he shook the umbrella closed as he entered the flat. "Are you home? I've brought you something."

Gleason froze when she heard him come in. Thunder seemed to announce the coming doom. She covered her mouth with both hands to smother the mewling. Don't be afraid, don't be afraid. He won't do it if you're not afraid. Pretend everything is normal.

The knob turned on the bedroom door, "Here you are! You are not hiding, are you love? What a pretty blouse, is it new? The color is just right for you. Why don't you slip it off for now? I have something for you." He held out a small bag and continued, his voice darkening, "Take it off. Do it! Take that goddamn rag off your back." He moved behind her, grabbed the blouse by the neck and ripped the shirt from her body. He did the same with her camisole and she stood naked from the waist up.

"Please, don't," she begged, shaking uncontrollably. He opened the bag and removed a small, flat green bottle.

"You stupid bitch; think you're so pretty, so smart, think you can do anything? You think you know so much. You can't do this, you can't stop me. You are mine. No one will want you. No one will think you are so smart. You'll have to stay with me, no one will want you." He grabbed her by the hair and threw her face down on the bed. He straddled her bottom, opened the small bottle, withdrew the swab and said, "Now, let's connect the dots."

Gleason shot up with a scream, gasping for air. She scanned the room and realized she had fallen asleep. She was in her flat, in New York. Her back burned, prickly pain. But she was safe, it was only a dream. Only a dream, thank God. No! Not safe. Clive had found her.


	10. Chapter 10

32

Rune Alignment

Chapter 10

"What did I miss?" Bishop walked up to Goren and Eames. She saw Sledge pacing with a cell phone to his ear.

Bobby was going through the next steps Eames and Jackass were to do. Eames was taking notes.

"Don't you think we should put a car outside her building?" Eames asked.

"No, that won't be necessary. I'm going to stay close."

"Bobby, you have the trunk case. You can't do both."

"Alex is right, I can't run this body/trunk/diamonds case myself, not at this point," Bishop mentioned.

"Well, you're going to have to. I'll do up the plan, and you execute. It's straightforward, right Eames? Besides, Alex here will give you a hand if she has to, right?"

Eames rolled her eyes and looked down at the stack of files, loose photos, and notes that covered her desk and sighed. They actually had three cases going right now – the museum artifact case was midway, the trunk with diamonds had just started, and the professor was fresh. "Bobby, this isn't right. You have to give up the professor's case. Just work the trunk with Bishop and get it done. Then you can join Sledge and me on the professor's case."

Bobby was about to answer when Sledge returned from listening to the messages on Gleason's cell phone. His face was pale and he was subdued, "Why isn't this with Special Victims? This is obviously a sex crime, or will be."

"Because right now it's a stalking and threat case; no sex crime has taken place and if we all cooperate, there won't be. Now, if you will join us, we can work out a plan. OK?"

"Wait. Let's take everything we've got on each case into the conference room, sort through it all, get it organized and then see how to proceed on each one," Eames suggested. Finally, a plan, something real to do; each of them began picking up folders, evidence bags, loose photos and headed for the conference room.

Two hours later, the museum fraud/switch case filled two boxes, the body/trunk/diamonds case was in one box, and the professor's case was two folders. They agreed to set aside the museum case for now since no person was in harm and the professor would be unavailable to assist for the time being. That left the body/trunk/diamonds case and Gleason's case.

Eames agreed to try to wrap up the body/trunk/diamonds case. She had two more interviews with diamond brokers to gather corroborating evidence, match the ME's report, and then meet with Carver. Sledge and Bishop took on Gleason's case. Sledge agreed to continue working the phone angle, getting the messages copied, overseeing the trace on new calls on Gleason's cell or on the redirect from her home, and so on. Bishop took the student Elliott tangent, finding out all there was to know about him. Bobby orchestrated everything. Most of the time, he was at his desk, on the phone talking to who knows whom.

Sledge, Bishop and Eames all returned at about the same time, late Friday afternoon.

"Ok, the student's last name is 'Baughman.' He's not in the system, doesn't even have a driver's license. He's been a student for three semesters entering last winter. He took no classes last summer. He took one of Wintermantle's classes last semester. He registered in each of Wintermantle's four classes plus a literature class this semester. He's an undeclared major with a 2.45 GPA. University has no residence, no phone on file. What _is_ interesting, however, -- he has a student visa," Bishop read to the other three.

"A visa? From where?" Bobby asked.

"The U. K., Wales," Bishop answered. "His student number is his national insurance number instead of a social security number. I'm going to run down the stats from his visa application next."

"He had no accent, none that I noticed." Bobby scowled and wrote in his folder. Then, "Did the university have a photo, maybe a copy from his student ID?" he asked hopefully.

"They do, but that computer was down. The woman said it would be back up Monday, hopefully. Sorry."

"Well, on another note –," Sledge said, "Wintermantle has apparently unplugged the phone in her apartment. It must be plugged in to redirect any incoming calls. Incoming calls will ring busy or the caller will get a message saying to try again later. You going to get her to plug her phone back in?"

Bobby ran his enormous hand over his face and said, "I'll take care of it. What else?"

Eames reported that the two brokers she needed to interview for the body/trunk/diamonds case were out of the country on a buying trip and wouldn't be back for a week.

"They were asked to remain available. But good, that puts that case on the back burner. Have you told Deakins yet?" Bobby asked.

"Want me to also tell him we've set aside the museum case until Wintermantle is able to assist?" Eames suggested.

"Yeah, but not now. So, what's next?" Bobby looked at his colleagues expectantly. They looked back at him.

"Bobby, it is Friday afternoon. Let's give it the weekend. No one is going to get anything done this late on a Friday. What do you say?" Eames had asked what the others wanted to say. "Let's talk to Deakins and then we'll all go home."

Bobby looked at the other three. He wanted to keep on working. Find this bastard. Bad guys don't quit just because it's the weekend. Gleason was still in danger. The caller was still out there. He knew Eames was right. "Alright, let's go talk to the boss." He rose from his desk, as did Eames.

"How about you and Alex talk to Deakins? Bishop and I will wait here. I want to run something by her," Sledge offered.

"Suit yourself," Bobby mumbled.

Eames explained to Deakins about the trunk case being on hold because of the brokers being gone. She also suggested they rest the museum case until the professor's case was resolved.

"Well, it seems you've gone from three active cases to one," Deakins commented. "Where are we with the professor's case? Any ideas as to who is making these calls?"

"Two possibilities that we know of so far," Bobby answered, "the student Elliott and the ex-lover, Clive. Bishop tracked down information that may make the student a person of interest."

"How so?"

"He's in this country on a student visa from the UK. But, I heard no accent when he hollered to her last night. I'm . . . I'm going to see if I can check out the student this evening."

"Apparently, it doesn't matter that I took you off that case, does it, detective?" Bobby looked at the floor and wrapped his arms across his chest. "Where is Jerry on her phones?" Deakins continued.

"Jerry told Sledge that the redirect is a problem until her phone is plugged in again. I'm, um, going to try and take care of that tonight as well."

Deakins shook his head and said, "Have a good weekend."


	11. Chapter 11

34

Rune Alignment

Chapter 11.

"You want fries with that?" the server asked with a great smile.

"Yes, please," Bobby answered the girl. He had left the office and driven home about an hour after the other three had left, changed his clothes and headed to the university. He parked and walked around for a while, looking at faces, trying to find the student Elliott. What were the chances, he asked himself. Bobby figured the guy had to eat sometime and so did he, so Bobby picked this place. It was a typical student restaurant, family style with lots of good, cheap food; food that guaranteed the freshman fifteen and then some.

Bobby looked around. Couples on dates, buddies hanging out, girls in groups of two and three. All looking really, really young and making Bobby feel much older than his 45. I could be their father, he admitted sadly. He watched a few families, probably graduate students with kids. He was the only one sitting alone. So what else was new? He wished he had had a photo of Elliott to show. He would have to keep his eyes open and see if he and Elliott crossed paths tonight.

"Ketchup and mustard are on the table, can I get you anything else right now? More coffee, maybe?" the server, 'Kimber' according to her tag, asked with another big smile as she set his plate before him.

"No, thanks, not right now," he smiled in return. Bobby slathered his sandwich with mustard and dug into his pastrami with zeal, he hadn't eaten all day.

It was getting dark by the time he left the restaurant. He decided to walk the streets surrounding campus and check a few bars, looking for Elliott. It was a stab in the dark, since he had no idea about this guy. However, he did find two places that served his Weihenstephanuer Hefe Weiss bier. Two glasses and two cigarettes at each place and he was ready to park it somewhere.

He couldn't stop wondering, worrying about Gleason. He sensed she would be safe in her apartment. Although, if he was able to get into her building without a hitch, so could anyone. He wanted to call her new cell, hear her voice, talk with her, and see if she was all right. Hell, he didn't even know if she'd taken the cell phone from the hallway. If he called, if that cell phone rang, it would terrify her. She wouldn't answer it anyway; she hadn't answered the door and had unplugged her landline. She had isolated herself from the rest of the world; she was denying reality. Unless someone kicked in her door, she was physically safe. Emotionally was another story.

Bobby found himself heading for his car. Gleason's place was just a few blocks north of here. He could walk it, should walk it, and walk off this buzz; but he wanted to keep an eye on her place so he needed his car.

He drove the short distance to her building, passed it and turned around so he could park on the street and face her apartment side of the building. It was dark now. He sat and watched the parking lot; he could see the lobby door as well. One light showed in one of her apartment windows. The windows in the other apartments on that side were dark. He got comfortable and watched. It was like a stakeout in the old days. More was at stake this time, though. He didn't know what he thought he would see, sitting here in the dark. Several people walked by, not even noticing him. Why do I eat pastrami? he thought as his chest burned and he rifted up another cloud of toxic fumes. And drink beer with it? Four beers, Jesus. It was good, though. But worth it? Yeah, it was worth it. He opened the glove box and rummaged for an antacid. Damn, nothing. He settled back and yawned; he needed to sober up a little, too. He wished he had another cigarette.

Well, who is this? My, my, it's the good detective. He must not be planning to visit since he's parked on the street, must be on a stakeout. How exciting! Just like on the cop shows. What does he think he's going to see, someone trying to break into the fair lady's chamber? Ha! No one wants that bitch. No one thinks she smart, not any more. I wonder if he's going to try and visit her later. I certainly hope so. That would be sweet, maybe walk past him. Say 'Evening' to him. Maybe brush against him. Knowing where he was going, what he was going to try and do with her. She wouldn't let him, though. No one can touch her but me. She's mine.

Gleason looked for an aspirin. She found none. Her head continued to pound. Her midsection ached. Crying always did this to her, made her sick. She was so tired of crying. She'd done more crying in the last eight years than the rest of her life combined. Why couldn't she have a normal life, like other people? Her birth and early childhood were not like other people. Her years in child protection were not bad, but certainly not normal. The years with the Lockharts were as close to normal as she had ever been, but even those were odd.

She sat on the couch and looked around her flat. It had that refugee look: bare essentials, no personal items, no evidence of a past life. It didn't bother her that she had no effects, no photos, artwork, books, or mementos. She had never been anywhere long enough to gather such things, except maybe those with Clive.

Gleason's life seemed to progress in four to six year chapters. Her first six years were spent on the island between North Ronaldsay and Fair Isle, then four years in child protection in Glasgow, six years with the Lockharts in Luton, four years as a young student at Cambridge and four teaching at Doncaster Institute. After that, four years of field authentication work for a private collector and then five years at the University of Manchester doing graduate work and teaching.

The years at U of M were probably her happiest. She loved the area, all good people; she could have made Stockport her home. She had even dated a member of the United's football team, Gavin. He was a lot like Bobby, big, shy, kind, gentle. She would have had kids with Gavin; had a normal life, maybe. However, she followed her mentor to Edinburgh, finished her doctorate and second book and met Clive. Then she got the job at Oxford and they moved south. Here she was, thirty-nine years old, living alone in New York in a three room flat with charity shop furnishings; hiding from Clive. She sighed and pulled the throw tighter.


	12. Chapter 12

29

Rune Alignment

Chapter 12

"Unh . . . yeah . . . Goren," he mumbled into the cell phone as he lifted it from its cradle. He squinted at the clock, three eighteen. He cleared his throat, "Eames? That you?" Silence. He bolted up, feet on the floor, suddenly wide-awake. "Gleason? Gleason, talk to me. Are you ok?" Silence. "Who is this?" A long silence, then . . .

"Bobby," a whisper, a shuddering whisper.

"Gleason! Are you ok?"

"An envelope came under the door. I don't want to open it. What should I do?"

"Don't touch it. I'll be right there. Buzz me in when I get there, ok?" Silence. "Gleason, buzz me in, right?"

"Yes."

Bobby grabbed his jeans from the chair where he'd tossed them two hours ago and pulled them on, slipped on the black tee shirt from earlier as well and slid his bare feet into loafers. He snatched his phone from the bed, his keys, wallet, shield and weapon from the dresser and went to the kitchen for his leather jacket on the back of the kitchen chair.

He parked in her lot thirty minutes later. Her Volvo hadn't moved. He took a pair of latex gloves and an evidence bag from the glove box and trotted to the lobby door.

With his right hand on the door handle, he pushed her button next to the buzzer box. Nothing. Come on, damn it. He pushed it again. Nothing. Shit! Once more. Buzz, click. He yanked and strode to the elevator.

"Gleason, it's me. Don't step on the envelope when you open the door." The dead bolt turned and the door opened a bit. Bobby pushed it further and saw the envelope on the floor, a simple white business envelope lying face down. He side stepped it, shut the door, flipped the bolt and faced Gleason.

She stood wrapped in some kind of blanket; he could see her shivering. He went to her pulled her close and she cried into his shoulder. He held her and let her cry; she clutched his shirt and cried like a child. His heart was breaking.

Suddenly she pushed away and ran toward the hallway. He heard her retching. Bobby followed her slowly, not knowing what to do. He stood in the hall, hands in his pockets, leaning back against the wall until she came out. She had splashed water on her face and had pulled back her hair with a clip. They stood and looked at each other. She cast her eyes down, as if ashamed, readjusted the throw and walked back to the living room.

She sat on the couch, the only furniture besides a small dinged table and an old lamp, she pointed to the envelope. "That's it. I don't know when it came. I saw it when I went to the bathroom. It wasn't there at midnight. I must have fallen asleep and didn't notice when it came. Take it away." Her voice was flat, expressionless.

Bobby stood staring at her. He saw the exhaustion -- it showed in her face, her swollen eyes, her pale skin, her rounded posture; he heard it in her voice. She still wore the same jeans and long sleeved tee shirt from yesterday morning. Her feet were bare.

He pulled the gloves from his pocket and stretched them on, then took the evidence bag from his pocket. He went to the envelope, stooped, picked it up by a corner, and slid it inside the bag. He sealed the bag, returned it to his inside coat pocket and glanced at his watch. Then he went to Gleason, pulled off the gloves and put them back in the pocket.

They sat silently for a while, not touching. "Why didn't you let me in earlier?" he asked. She said nothing. "I, I want to help you. I can protect you. Come here," he reached for her, afraid she would retreat.

"Take off your jacket," she said instead and he glanced at her. "I don't like the smell of leather," she explained. Bobby smiled slightly, took off his jacket, threw it aside and settled back on the couch. He slipped off his shoes as Gleason curled up into his arm, against his chest, pulling the throw around her. He tucked in the edges and held her with both arms. Slowly she stopped shivering, her breathing slowed and deepened and she was asleep. Together they slept.

He lay naked, gasping, sore from his last go at himself. He needed her. His want was so deep; he knew he was losing control. Get her, use her. No one else could do to her what he could. No one would want her after he got to her. The smart bitch. So smart. So goddamn smart.

He lay there, hating her. Reliving what he'd done, what he would do next, he began to stiffen again. He couldn't help himself. He reached and began to stroke.

"Gleason," he said softly, "wake up. Gleason." He wanted to stroke her hair, touch her gently to wake her, but he couldn't move. The left half of his body was completely numb and he had a crick in his neck. So this is what a stroke feels like, he thought. "Honey, wake up."

She sighed, stirred and electricity shot through his arm and leg. He grimaced as she sat up. Strands of hair fell from her clip and the side of her face wore creases from his shirt. She stretched and asked, "What's wrong?" But it wasn't a panicked question, it was natural, calm. She looked at him and said sleepily, "Come on, this isn't comfortable. Let's go to bed." She stood, shrugged up the throw around her, and reached for his hand.

"I, I can't," he said.

"It's ok, I trust you."

"No, I, I really can't. I can't move. My leg and arm are asleep." He gestured feebly.

Gleason looked at him sitting there looking up at her, misery written all over his face. He didn't move, really couldn't. She smiled. And the smile grew. She started to laugh, head thrown back; it was a magical sound. "Oh, my god, I invite a man to my bed and he feigns paralysis to avoid sleeping with me."

"No, no, no, I want to, I, I just . . . can't . . . get up." Bobby tried to stand, fumbled and winced and said, "Help me, pull me up." Still chucking, she grabbed his huge hand with both of hers and pulled. He was on his feet wobbling and wincing. Fireworks shot up and down his leg and arm, "Ow, ow, ow," he yelped. Gleason put an arm around his waist and he leaned on her as she led him toward the bedroom.

"You move like Quasimodo's lame brother," she said.

"Yeah, well, we need to stop at the bathroom," he said as they hobbled across the living room.

"Ok, but, numb or not, you're on your own in there," she said.

"No problem; hurry."

"Better?" she asked when Bobby emerged, limping slightly.

"Much."

"Come on, Gumby, let's go to bed."

Bobby followed her into her bedroom. She lay down on the near side of the bed and turned onto her left side. He stepped around to the other side, slipped his weapon from his belt and set it on the dresser top, and stretched out behind her. Gleason wiggled close and Bobby snuggled closer. He held her. They moved even closer. That twitch in his pants again, big time. Nice, this was very, very nice.

"Bobby?"

"Hmmm?"

"Do you smoke?"

She felt him tense, "Um, no, not really, only . . . no . . . well, maybe once in a while. I quit once. I don't smoke now, only sometimes."

She was already asleep.


	13. Chapter 13

42

Rune Alignment

Chapter 13.

"What are you doing?" Gleason asked.

Bobby turned around, paring knife in hand and replied, "Morning glory. You don't have a big bowl. I'll have to use a pot. We need to get you a mixing bowl."

She walked to him, still schlepping the chenille throw, put an arm around his waist, and saw the pile of chopped vegetables on a dinner plate. It looked like he'd cleaned out her fridge: the last of her eggs, milk, English muffins, butter, the last two peaches, and a wee block of cheese covered the small workspace. Bobby reached an arm around her and gave her a quick hug, planting a kiss on her forehead, then went back to dicing a green pepper.

"We need to go shopping. The kettle is on and breakfast will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Why don't you go take a shower and change? We'll eat when you're done." He was happy.

She dropped her arm and stood beside him, looking up at him. It was her turn to search his face. His stubble had become an early beard. His eyes were clear, dark ovals, deep windows into his brilliant mind. His hair, mussed from sleep, looked as curly as hers did, but he wore it short. Individual strands of silver littered the dark brown. He continued to work as she examined him. He felt her eyes and looked at her, "What?"

Without a word, she reached up, placed a hand on each side of his face, pulled his head toward hers and kissed him full on the lips. In one move, Bobby set down the paring knife, turned toward her, took her in his arms and returned her kiss. Her tongue gently sought its way into his mouth. He took a sharp breath and let her in. His left hand moved up her back to her neck, around to her throat, his fingers reaching, stroking her face. She felt him rise against her, she turned her head, leaving him kissing, licking and sucking her neck, "Bobby, wait. Bobby, no."

"Huh uh, this is good." He nuzzled her neck and used his fingers to move her face back to his open mouth.

"Wait, wait." Gleason stepped back and Bobby looked at her with abject confusion.

"What?" he was breathing heavily. "What's wrong?"

"I can't, not yet. I'm so sorry," she turned, gathered up the throw that had fallen off and walked to the bathroom for her shower.

Bobby watched her go, not understanding what had just happened. He wiped a hand over his face; with eyes closed, he let out a long, low growl. He crossed his right ankle over his left, placed both hands on the edge of the counter, bent at the waist and waited. Finally, when he was able to stand, he pushed off the counter and continued preparing their breakfast.

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Gleason stepped out of her clothes and stood under the steaming water. What have I done, she wondered. The water felt so good, she could stay there for hours; but Bobby was waiting for her. He'll be angry, she thought. She washed her hair and lathered her body, rinsed and stood under the hot water, hoping the hot water would melt the scars from her back. Why did I kiss him? A short time later, she stepped from the shower. She dried off and then wrapped her hair in the towel. It was good, the kiss, his arms felt so good; she wanted more, Bobby wanted more. She used the throw as a robe, gathered her clothes from the floor and crossed the hall to her bedroom. You don't know what lies beneath, she reminded herself. She pulled up plain white panties, pulled on an undershirt and then dressed in dark green cargo pants and a boxy, long sleeved tee shirt. You don't know; never really know. She put on socks and slipped her feet into well-worn mocs. What have I done? She twisted her damp hair into a French braid. He'll be angry now.

Bobby sprawled in a chair at the table, one arm slung over the back, chewing his thumb, waiting for her. He turned when she entered the kitchen, rose and stepped to the small oven where he used a tea towel to remove a small plate of toasted English muffins and then two dinner plates each bearing a huge vegetable omelet. He set the plates on the table, went to the fridge and took two small bowls containing peach slices. The table was set with butter, honey, mugs, old cloth napkins and mismatched silverware. She watched him move the teapot to the table; he even found the cozy and knew what to do with it. "It's ready," he said plainly.

"Bobby . . ." she started.

"Gleason," he held up a hand, "its ok. It was nice, more than nice, but you're right, it's too soon. Come on, I'm starved." He reached for her elbow, lead her to the other chair, pulled it out and she sat. He put his hands on her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. Cinnamon?

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Jerry in Audio was pulling overtime, trying to copy and compile all the messages from the professor's cell phone. He had to get the messages copied and off her phone so the caller could leave more without bumping the earliest one. This is one sick bastard, he thought. He'd have to wait for Monday for Eames to get a warrant to get copies of the landline messages from the phone company.

Speaking of the landline, the professor's home phone was still unplugged. That has to be plugged in, he thought; we're probably missing all kinds of calls. Jerry decided to call Goren and remind him to try to get the professor to plug her phone back in. Although, he reconsidered, why not just call the professor herself on that department cell and tell her to do it. God knows what Goren's up to this weekend. Jerry dialed.

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"This is really good," Gleason said with some surprise. "Where did you learn to cook like this?"

"Well, you see," swallowing and answering with a glint in his eye, "I am so much more than a pretty face." He didn't want to tell her that growing up, from age seven anyway, he did most of the cooking. When his mother was manifesting symptoms, it fell to Bobby to keep them all fed. His father was rarely around, especially when his mom got bad, and his brother was always out, avoiding the weirdness at home. Often, it was just Bobby and his mom.

"We need to go shopping," Bobby continued, "You need a mixing bowl. And a cheese grater. We need to get some food, too. I think I cleaned you out. What do you say? Let's go to the farmer's market." He checked his watch. "We have lots of time. It will be fun." Bobby was so happy; she could see it in his eyes, his gestures, could hear it in his voice.

They both ate with gusto. Between bites, she said, "I love an open air market, that's the only place I ever shopped at home. Can you find oddities there as well, bowls and things? I should probably make a list."

"No, you don't take a list for a market. You wand-. . ." a cell phone ring stopped him cold. Both spun their heads toward the living room. It rang again. "It's not mine," he said getting up. It rang again and he followed the sound to the small lamp table. Gleason's eyes were huge; she held her napkin against her mouth. Bobby stood looking at the new cell phone.

"Bobby," she started but he silenced her with a hand. It rang again. He took the phone, pushed talk, and put it to his ear.

"Uh, Dr. Wintermantle? Are you there? Dr. Wintermantle?"

Bobby listened silently, trying to get a read on the voice. It sounded normal, how could anyone get this number?

"Hello? Dr. Winter- . . ."

"Who the hell is this?" Bobby barked into the phone.

Silence then, "Goren? That you? It's me, Jerry. From work."

Relief flooded Bobby's body and he nearly slumped with calm. "Jesus Christ, Jerry! What the hell are you doing calling her phone?"

"Ha, you dog. I was going to call your phone but I didn't know where you would be. Little did I know. . . So, anyway, I called hers to tell her to plug in the landline. She's apparently unplugged it because nothing is happening on the redirect. We're going to miss calls from this guy if he's still active. He's one sick bastard, huh?"

Listening, Bobby glanced all around the living room for her home phone. Not seeing it, he headed down the short hallway to her bedroom. There it was, on the short, three-legged stool that served as her bedside table. The line was attached to the phone base; she must have unplugged it at the jack.

"Let me see where the jack is and I'll fix it. Hey, thanks for staying on this. I'll catch you later." He ended the call with the push of a button and saw Gleason watching him from the doorway. "Where's the phone jack?" he asked, "I should have done this last night." Gleason pointed to the wall on the far side of the bed. Bobby found the jack and connected the phone to the system once again.

"That was Jerry from work," Bobby explained. "He's putting a redirect feed on your line. Any calls that come in on your home phone won't ring here; they'll ring on a dedicated line in Jerry's lab. The caller will hear the same message prompt as before and think he's gotten your message service and he'll say what he's gonna say. Jerry will then be able to record the message on his equipment and then do a voiceprint. He'll also be able to begin a trace on the calls."

Her eyes were huge; she had that terrorized look again. "It's ok, things are getting done. Come on. Let's finish eating and then we'll get some air." He put his arm around her and led her back to the kitchen.


	14. Chapter 14

46

Rune Alignment

Chapter 14.

"That fucking bitch!" he growled as he slammed down the receiver. He'd been trying to call her for hours. 'All circuits are busy, please try your call later,' my ass. She's unplugged her goddamn phone! He was shaking with anger. People passed by him without a glance. Saturday morning, many pretties running, jogging, walking along, not a one of them worth his time.

With hands jammed in his pockets – so close, just a tweak – he marched off to find another pay phone. He had decided to walk this morning as he made his rounds, trying to reach her. He had to stay out of his place and away from his car. The temptation to indulge was too great. He was too close to loosing control again. He nearly completely lost control Thursday night. Once he realized he had found Gleason, the desire to have her was overwhelming. He'd over done it, he knew; he'd lost control and left too many messages in his frustration. It felt so good, though, to know where she was. It felt so good, too, to indulge. But . . . too much of a good thing is a bad thing. He was so sore, rubbed raw. But too much of a bad thing can be so good.

She had gone straight to the police – the big strong copper had become her hero. Must be careful; he didn't want this fun to be over before it started. He had to take it easy. Leave her alone just a bit. Slow down. Walk around. Don't get caught.

It was daylight and he could not risk being seen indulging himself in the front seat of a car while at a pay phone. His game was a delight in the dark, however; the risks, the cool air – stirrings, wonderful stirrings – stop, stop now. He crossed the street and headed north.

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Bobby and Gleason finished eating and he began to clear the table. "Do you want to take a shower?" Gleason asked, taking plates from him. "You are not going to clean up this kitchen after cooking that lovely meal."

"I don't want to put on grungy clothes after a good shower. How about if we run by my place, I take a quick shower, change and then we go off to the market? It will take less than an hour. It's still early; the market will be open for hours." Bobby's hands indicated the sequence of events.

"Alright; but let me do up these dishes, it won't take a minute. You sit."

Bobby nodded and picked up the butter and honey and put them away. He refolded the napkins and returned them and the tea cozy to the second drawer. Then he took the tea towel and began to dry the few dishes and cutlery and put them away. He knew his way around her kitchen. This is what life could be like, he thought. This is so good. Gleason glanced up at him and smiled. He couldn't remember being happier.

"There, all done. Let's go. I'm excited to get to see where you live and then see the market. It will be good to get out." Gleason dried her hands and took a step toward the living room. Bobby caught her around the waist, placed a hand on the side of her face, thumb under her chin, and kissed her warmly. She kissed him back. They broke and looked at each other deeply, and then she said, "Let's go."

Bobby went back to the bedroom to retrieve his weapon and then found his shoes. He slipped on his jacket and took his keys from the pocket. Gleason took a length of cream wool fabric from a hook on the wall behind her door and picked up her bag. "I'm ready."

Bobby held out the new cell phone, "Here, put this in your bag."

"But I'll be with you, won't I? I won't need to call you."

"Just take it, ok?" Bobby didn't want to frighten Gleason but she was a candidate for kidnapping. It was a risk going out in public, but he would keep her close. He knew the caller was local from the first call last night at Dickie's place. The guy was using pay phones. If the threats were anywhere near true, Gleason was not safe at all. He did not want her going back to the university until the caller was in custody. He would talk to her about that tonight.

Gleason took the phone and slipped it into her bag. Bobby opened the door, showed her through and asked for her keys to lock the door. They were quiet in the elevator and all the way to his car. Once inside, he asked, "Are you sure you want to go out? It's ok if we stay here."

She was silent for a moment and then said, "No. I want to go. I can't become agoraphobic. Besides, I want to see your place." She smiled and he grinned back.

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He walked up the street, passed Gleason's building, and noticed the empty parking spot in her lot; her car was still there. Well the copper left did, he? Used her, left her. No, no, he would not have used her; he would not want her once he had seen my handiwork. He would be repulsed. He would think how stupid of her to allow that to happen to herself. He would finally realize how stupid she really is. He probably left because he grew tired of her stupid chatter and simpering fear. Oh, I can make her afraid, so, so afraid.

Fear is intoxicating, he thought. Her fear is a fine wine, with a musky aroma and robust flavor. How he wanted to taste that fear, taste her again; drink in her terror. Run his tongue over the places where he had marked her. Careful, he told himself, feeling s stir, not on the street. Later, later.

He continued past her building, smiling at his cleverness. She's up there all alone. So frightened.

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"Ok, this is it," he said as he parked. He jogged around the car and opened her door.

Gleason was beaming. "I don't know why I'm so excited about seeing your place. This is more fun than going to the market."

"Well, prepare to be disappointed," he said as he unlocked the lobby door and pulled it open, "this is a four floor walk up. I'm on three." He followed her up the steps. Bobby stepped in front of her at the third floor, led her to the second door on the right and unlocked it, pushed it open and ushered her in.

"Mr. Bobby! Oooh, who eh dis preddy lady?"

"Estella, I forgot today is your day. This is my friend, Gleason. Gleason, this is Estella, she keeps the health department away. I'll be out in a minute. Do you want anything while I shower?" Bobby asked as he threw his jacket on the back of the chair in the kitchen. Gleason shook her head and quickly glanced around. Bobby excused himself and headed to the bedroom.

Estella smiled a wide, cheek-puffing smile and half nodded, half bowed to Gleason. "You are a preddy lady for Mr. Bobby. He like you, I see it. He has no udder lady. Mr. Bobby need a lady. He too lonely all deh time." Over her shoulder she shouted, "Hey, Mr. Bobby, you donne make a mess in my clean battroom. You hear?" She turned back to Gleason. "I clean good today for Mr. Bobby. You help me, yet? We put deh good sheets on Mr. Bobby bed. You help me, yet? Tomm on."

Gleason glanced around, trying to take in Bobby's apartment, dropped her shawl and bag on the sofa, and followed Estella into the bedroom. "Tch, tch, dat Mr. Bobby, he so sloppy sometime," Estella clucked as she picked up his discarded jeans, shirt and boxers from the chair in the corner and tossed them in the basket in the bottom of his closet. She took a set of blue and white striped sheets from the closet shelf, turned to Gleason and said, "Here, help me wit dis," and shot an end of the fitted sheet across the double bed to Gleason. "Dese are Mr. Bobby good sheets. I save dem for when he has a preddy lady stay over. He never use dem. Till today." Another huge smile.

"Oh, no . . . I don't think . . ." Gleason blushed and stammered, "we just stopped by for him . . . to shower and change." Estella just smiled and nodded.

They were pulling up the nubby coverlet when Bobby stepped into the bedroom. Everyone froze. Gleason and Estella stopped mid movement, each holding a side of the coverlet in the air. Bobby stopped dead, looked from Gleason to Estella and back again. He clutched a towel around his hips with one hand.

"Oh, Mr. Bobby . . . you look very good nakit. You big and strong," Estella said with a big smile, unabashedly looking him up and down and then up again. "You lady and me, we put deh good sheets on for tonight."

Gleason reddened and grinned but could not take her eyes off Bobby. Estella was right – he did look wonderful. The breadth of his shoulders, his muscled arms, flat stomach and the width of his chest all were so obvious without clothes. His hair was wet and curly and he had shaved. Nice, thought Gleason, very nice.

Bobby went beet red and suddenly found the pattern in the carpeting of utmost fascination. "Um, uh . . . ," he sputtered, right hand chopping away at the air. He dared a glance at Gleason. He looked like a child caught doing something unthinkable.

"Oh, Mr. Bobby! You so shy. Look, he all red. You a good boy, Mr. Bobby. You momma did good raising you to be a good man." To Gleason, she continued, "Come on, we let him put some clothes on. Den he take you out for some fun. And den tonight. . ." she said with a smile in her voice. Estella patted his chest as she passed in front of him. Gleason looked up and grinned with eyebrows raised. Bobby just rolled his eyes and shut the door after them.

Gleason was dusting a shelf in a bookcase when Bobby returned to the living room. He was dressed in fresh jeans and a button-down blue chambray shirt he had tucked in, he held his leather jacket. "Gleason, what are you doing?" he whispered as he stepped up behind her and took the rag. "Estella, we're leaving," he called to his housekeeper in the kitchen. He gathered up Gleason's shawl and bag and guided her to the door with his hand in the small of her back.

"Ok, bye-bye. You and deh lady have a good time today. And tonight. Bye-bye preddy lady," she emerged wiping her hands on a dishtowel, smiling like the sun in the sky.

Following Gleason down the steps, slipping into his jacket, Bobby said, "I'm, uh, I didn't mean for . . . I forgot that – Estella is. . ."

Gleason stopped and turned around on a step and looked up at him, "Bobby, it's ok. I got to meet your housekeeper, see your apartment and more of you than I ever expected," she said with a smile. Bobby groaned and said, "Let's go."


	15. Chapter 15

4

Rune Alignment

Chapter 15.

"Have any new calls come in on the redirect from the professor's home phone?" Eames asked Jerry. She had decided to come in on Saturday morning to get a head start on the cell phone investigation. After all, she had nothing else going on in her life.

"Actually, she had unplugged her landline. The caller would have gotten a 'try again later' message. I'm sure that pissed him off," Jerry replied.

"Well, that's just great. How do we get her to plug it back in? We have her cell phone and her home phone is unplugged. We can't wait on this."

"Not to worry. I called the cell Goren took to her. He answered it this morning at her place and he plugged her in. No new calls have come in yet," Jerry explained.

So, Bobby's at Wintermantle's place. Well, what do you know? Why doesn't that surprise me, she thought. Eames was disappointed in herself at how she felt about that bit of information. Her mind began to race. Did he spend the night? Did they have sex? What are they doing now? Is he still there? Are they still in bed? Good grief, she told herself, get a grip. Images flew through her inner eye. She saw them kissing, touching. She saw them in bed, him on top, she straddling him. Eames saw everything she had ever imagined him doing to her, but now she saw the professor in her place. A profound sadness descended on Eames.

"I transferred the messages from her cell to disc," Jerry told her. "Now the caller has lots of room to talk his dirty talk on her cell. Martin is coming in this afternoon to begin the voiceprints. He would be here now, but his kid has a game this morning." Jerry looked at Eames and kind of figured what was going on in her mind. Her disappointment was clear. Why do women do this, he thought, why do they fall for guys who view them as a sister. Eames is so not Bobby's type. I bet he doesn't even know Eames has the hots for him. "Eames?"

Eames jumped from her reverie, "I'm sorry, Jerry, I wasn't listening. What did you say?"

"Martin is coming in later to start the voice prints. Want me to do anything in the meantime?"

"Yeah, actually, can you dupe the message disc so Louise can begin the transcription? We'll also need a copy of the disc and a copy of the transcription for Huang over at Special Victims so he can begin a profile. Is Louise in this weekend?"

"I haven't seen her. But I've been in here the whole time."

"Martin will have to pull in-system voice prints matching Huang's profile, once it's completed, and begin to look for a match to the caller's prints. There's a lot to do." Eames had decided to immerse herself in work to forget about her hurt. She had learned to do that well over the years. Her loneliness is part of what made her so good at her work.

Jerry continued, "I should give Bobby a call and see if he wants to come in and have some fun with us, huh?"

"No. Don't bother him on his weekend off. I'll call him later to update him and to see how the professor is doing. I'll talk with you later. I'm going to see if Louise is in."

Jerry watched the tiny detective walk away. She was so much like his cousin Ann – a nice, professional woman who never seemed to get a date and would probably end up never marrying, denying her loneliness, pining over something that would never be.

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Bobby and Gleason parked and walked the few blocks to the market. He basked in her happiness and she in his. They strolled up and down the aisles, holding hands.

Bobby couldn't help but check out every man they passed. He was looking for someone looking at her. It wasn't an easy task because Gleason was tall and stunning; she got many second looks from lots of men. He kept a tight hold on her hand, only letting go when she wanted to fondle produce. So far, no one looked suspicious; and, they hadn't purchased a thing.

"How about if I make us dinner tonight? We can stay in and watch a movie. What do you say?" Bobby looked at her expectantly.

"I don't have a television," Gleason explained plainly.

"Then we'll go to my place. I have a TV and a DVD player." And fresh sheets on the bed he thought to himself. Slowly, slowly, don't mess this up.

"Hey, Dr. Wintermantle! Fancy meeting you here," Elliott shouted as he trotted toward them. Bobby thought he heard Gleason utter a short groan at the sound of the student's voice. He let go of Gleason's hand and stepped slightly in front of her as they turned toward the voice behind them. "Whatcha doin'? Find anythin' good? I just checked out the flea market, they have some old stuff over there. You should go see if anything is valuable. Who's this?"

"Elliott; it seems I can't get away from you," Gleason responded, ignoring his question. "I am enjoying this lovely morning as are you. I won't keep you. Enjoy the weekend." She took Bobby's arm and turned to leave.

"Hi, I'm Elliott, one of Dr. Wintermantle's students," Elliott said as he stuck out his right hand for Bobby to take.

Bobby ignored the hand and said nothing but looked at the student, trying to gauge him – age, origin, and mindset. Though Elliott's behavior and appearance seemed to put him in his early to mid twenties, on close inspection, he was older, by maybe ten years. His speech was colloquial, but studied, almost forced, perhaps to ensure no trace of an accent.

Bobby pulled his arm from Gleason and stepped completely in front of her. In a low, intimidating voice he said, "I understand you are in all of Dr. Wintermantle's classes. What is your major?"

Something flashed across the student's face, a cloud, a glimpse of anger; he didn't blink nor did he look away. Elliott shifted his weight from one foot to the other and answered, "I'm keeping my options open right now. And you are. . ." Elliott extended his hand again.

Bobby ignored the hand a second time, waited, took a step toward the student and said darkly, "I am . . . curious as to why someone would take a full load of classes in a relatively narrow, specialized field. I am curious as to why someone would seem to follow another person; infringing on that person's private time outside of what is proper, barging in at private, inopportune times. I am wondering if you are not stalking Dr. Wintermantle. And, I am wondering if I shouldn't just take you in right now." Bobby had slipped his right hand into his front pocket and had cupped his shield in his hand. He pulled it from his pocket and turned his hand for Elliott to see, then continued, "Now why don't you leave Dr. Wintermantle alone, see her in class, and get a life. Ok?"

Elliott glanced at the badge and then stared at Bobby; he had let his hand fall. Bobby stared back at the student and saw something raw behind his eyes, a sharp light, honed with fury, fearless. Something is not right with this guy, Bobby thought.

The moment ended and Elliott turned to Gleason and said, "See you Monday." Then he turned and marched away. Bobby watched until the student had disappeared into the crowd. When Elliott was no longer in sight, he turned toward Gleason, pulled her close and hugged her, no passion, just held her to keep her safe. Is this the guy, Bobby wondered. Gleason cannot continue to teach her classes until the perp is found.

She was amazed at what had just taken place; Bobby's behavior astounded her. "Well, you certainly told him, didn't you," Gleason said, slipping her arms under his jacket, around his waist, looking up at him. It was like hugging a warm, stone turret. She stood close and pressed against him. He was so big, so strong, she felt so safe. She wanted him as she had wanted no other man. Right now, in the car, it didn't matter. She could see herself spending the rest of her life with this man. Whoa, slow down lass, she told herself, granted, what just happened was impressive; and, yes, she felt safe with him, he was good to her – but what lies beneath that strength? What else can he do, might he do, would he do, to her? What else – indeed.


	16. Chapter 16

53

Rune Alignment

Chapter 16

"Goren," he said into his cell phone.

"Bobby, it's me."

"Eames. What's up?"

"Jerry said you got Wintermantle's phone plugged back in."

"Yeah, have any calls come across? How are the disc copies coming?"

He stood and watched Gleason pay for two green peppers, two tomatoes, a bag of mushrooms, and endive. She took her change, smiled at the vendor and walked back to Bobby.

"No. No calls on the redirect. Jerry copied all the cell phone messages to disc and is copying the discs now. Loui. . ."

"Here, let me have those," Bobby mumbled quietly as he reached to take the bag of vegetables from Gleason.

"Where are you? What are you doing?" Eames asked, almost afraid of his answer.

"Huh? Oh . . ." a pause, ". . . at the market getting groceries."

"Is Wintermantle with you?"

"Yeah . . . I, uh, thought I would, uh, stay close. We had another interesting encounter with that student, Elliott. I'll tell you about it when I see you. You were going to say something about Louise?"

"Yeah, she's off this weekend, so nothing is going to happen with the transcription until Monday at the earliest. The rest of the transcription pool is choked with work. Huang is going to want a transcription of the calls to go with the disc, so his profile is at least few days out. Martin will be in later today to begin the voiceprints. He won't be able to pull in-house prints matching Huang's profile until Huang is done writing it. We're probably going to need a warrant to get copies of the messages from her home phone message service. That'll be Monday, too. Everything is moving pretty slowly till then."

"We're going to stop by and drop off an evidence bag. An envelope was slipped under her door last night. No one is probably working in trace this weekend, huh?"

"I don't think so. That's one more thing for Monday. So, I'll see you this afternoon sometime?"

"Yeah, probably sooner than later. Talk to you then."

Eames sat at her desk, hand still on the receiver after having hung it up. How many times did he say "we"?

Bobby reached for Gleason's hand as they started walking again, her left hand lost in his right. "When we're done here, I need to stop by work and drop off the envelope. I want to get it in line for examination early on Monday."

Gleason nodded, but said nothing. They walked along quietly, looking at the different booths. This is nice, just being together like this, she thought. He is nice, he seems normal. He is kind, gentle, brave. They had met fewer than 48 hours ago and it seemed as though she had known him her whole life. But, wait, you don't know him, do you? Don't really know him; don't know what lies beneath. How tired she was of being cautious, second-guessing herself and every one she met. He's nice, he's normal. He is, isn't he?

Looky, looky, here they are. Shopping, are we? What a lovely couple. Ah, young love; though not so young anymore, she's early forties by now and he's looking at fifty in a few. Holding hands, isn't that sweet? They'll have sex tonight, he knew. Yes indeed, they'll go at each other like two rutting pigs. She'll open her legs and let him inside. She'll be so wet, and warm and tight. Oh, the sounds she'll make as he jabs himself into her. He'll be big, he may hurt her, make her cry out with pain. She'll be afraid of his size; afraid he'll rip her. He'll be in such a hurry to fuck her, he won't care about hurting her, he won't even notice my work. Not until afterward, then he'll see what I've done; and, he'll be repulsed. He'll never want to empty himself into her again. He'll never want to see her again. Then, she'll come back to me. She'll let me do whatever I want because she'll be so afraid. Oh, the sounds she makes when she is afraid, better than sex sounds. So much better.

He was nearly fully erect. He took off his jacket and carried it in front of himself as he went in search of a private place.

Bobby carried their purchases. They had all the makings of a wonderful salad, a loaf of French bread, cheese, and strawberries. Bobby planned to make pasta with chicken and artichoke hearts. He wanted to stop and get some good wine on the way to his place. He needed chicken and artichokes. Probably pasta and milk, too.

"But first, let's stop and drop off this envelope." They walked the few blocks back to his car in silence. He opened her door and then put the groceries in the back. He got in, put the key in the ignition, but didn't turn it. He sat looking at the steering wheel, deep in thought.

"What's wrong?"

Bobby turned to face her, searched her face, put his right hand on the back of her neck, leaned in and kissed her. She returned the kiss and shared his passion. This kiss was different; it was fervent, needful. Sexual tension crackled between them. Bobby's left hand slipped under her tee shirt, seeking her breast. A soft moan escaped from Gleason as Bobby found his mark and ran his thumb over the nipple. He was mildly surprised to feel an undershirt stretched tight. She was braless. He pulled away and looked at her, breathing heavily he said, "We need to stop this or we'll be arrested for having sex in a car," he said. She glanced at his lap and noticed the promise for later.

"I can wait for you here. I'll be fine."

"Absolutely not. You can wait at my desk, or in the interview room, or come with me, but you are not waiting out here. Come on, let's go," Bobby told her and held out his hand to help her from the car.

"There really is no arguing with you, is there?" Gleason replied with a hint of exasperation.

"Nope."

Once inside the lobby of One Police Plaza, Bobby pushed the up button at the elevator bank. "So, what do you want to do, come with me or wait at my desk?"

"I'll wait at your desk. I can find my way. You go on and do what you have to do."

The elevator opened and he ushered her in, followed her and pushed the buttons for the fourth and eleventh floors. "I won't be more than fifteen minutes. I'll come and get you. Wait at my desk, ok?" The doors opened.

"Ok, ok. Go." He was reaching inside his coat for the envelope as he turned and headed right.

Gleason saw Detective Eames working at her desk. "Hello, detective."

Eames looked up and said, rising, "Professor. Where's Bobby?"

Gleason smiled, pulled out Bobby's desk chair and sat down. "Your good partner ordered me to wait for him here. Please, call me Gleason."

"I see." Eames found it difficult to look directly at the professor. Suddenly, she could not make small talk. She had never been intimidated like this. Her mind raced with what she imagined they had done all night, this morning. The professor was living what Eames had only dreamt.

Eames seemed to be very busy, too busy for talk. Gleason found the silence awkward. "Would you prefer I wait in the interview room? Detective Goren said I might wait there as well."

'Detective Goren' – come on, Eames thought. "No, no, wait here. Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you." The silence was becoming more than uncomfortable. "How long have you and Detective Goren been partners, if I may ask?"

Eames looked up, "About seven years."

"That's a long time. You must be very good friends, working closely together for so long."

How do I respond to that? Eames wondered. "We're friends, I suppose. We're more like siblings, though, I guess."

"Siblings; that's nice." Gleason thought about this little woman working beside her giant partner every day, each one looking out for the other. She wondered if Eames felt like more than a sister toward Bobby.


	17. Chapter 17

57

Rune Alignment

Chapter 17.

"Is there anyway to move this to the top of Monday's list?" Bobby asked the young evidence clerk.

"I'm sorry detective. You know I can't do that. Evidence is examined in the order in which it is received," the young man recited from the Rules and Regulations Of Evidence Acceptance, Routing, and Management manual.

"Yeah, yeah. Thanks anyway." Bobby went to find Jerry. He found the head audio technician sitting in front of a multiple disc burner, again wearing headphones. He tapped his buddy on the shoulder and Jerry pulled off the phones.

"Bobby. Doing some off duty body guard work, huh?" Jerry said with a wink and a mild elbow jab. He was a good guy, but could be a real jerk sometimes. Bobby ignored the comment.

"Are those the copies of the cell messages?"

"Yeah, almost done. I've done one for Louise to transcribe from, one for Huang, one as evidence, one for your department, and my backup."

"Can you do one for me, too?"

"You mean in addition to the department one, one of your own?"

"Yeah."

Jerry looked at his friend and said slowly, "I suppose. How do you want me to write it up? Not in your name, I'm sure."

Bobby thought a moment, "Assign it to the department as a second."

"Ok, but if there are questions, I'm coming to you. You can have one of these when they're done and I'll do up the extra afterward. Give me another ten minutes."

"Thanks, Jerry." He headed toward the elevators, pushed the up button, entered and pressed eleven.

"So, you've never married?"

"No, just never seemed to happen."

"Would you like to, though?"

"I suppose, if I found the right man. It's hard to know who is right, though, isn't it."

Bobby came around the corner and saw his partner and Gleason leaning across the desk tops talking like two neighbors over the fence. Both my girls, he thought and smiled.

"Gossiping?" he said as he approached.

The women turned and looked at the man they both loved; although Gleason would not have admitted to anything at this point.

"Just girl talk," Eames offered.

Gleason stood and Bobby moved to her side, excessively close to her side. They were nearly touching. Sexual tension radiated from the couple.

"Jerry is just about done burning the discs with the cell messages."

"You said on the phone that you had another 'Elliott encounter.' What happened?" Eames asked.

"He was at the market, ran into us, and was too familiar with Gleason."

"Did he get fresh with you?"

Gleason answered, "No, not at all, he was just . . . being himself – intrusive, not minding social or positional boundaries. It was odd, though, that he should be there at the market right where we were, at the same time."

"Bishop needs to finish checking with the university and then immigration first thing Monday," Bobby said to his partner.

"Immigration? What does immigration have to do with Elliott?" Gleason asked, looking up at Bobby.

"Um, Elliott's here on a student visa."

"What? From where?"

"Wales," Eames told her.

Gleason said nothing. Eames and Goren looked at her. She looked off, thinking. She crossed her arms. She's shrinking into herself. She's worried, beginning to be afraid, he thought.

"What are you thinking?" Bobby asked her.

She didn't respond at first, but a change had come over her. A dusting of fear changed her posture and coloring. She was afraid again. "I had no idea he is Welsh. He doesn't sound like it, does he?"

"Actually I think he's working hard to bury any accent." Bobby offered. "I thought he sounded forced, trying to speak with an American, New York accent."

"So what happened?" Eames asked.

"I convinced him to leave her alone unless he wanted me to take him in for stalking."

"Bobby was something to see. I'm sure Elliott will not be around outside of class." She sounded as if she was trying to convince herself. She was subdued. Her fear had returned.

I'm sure he was something to see, thought Gleason. "What's this about an envelope?" Eames asked. Gleason looked to the floor, seemed to stiffen and looked at the floor. Could he move any closer to her?

Sidestepping the question, Bobby replied, "It's in line for examination sometime on Monday." He gave his partner an unspoken look that asked her to drop it; couldn't she see how all this talk was affecting Gleason?

Eames read the message in Bobby's eyes and said, "Well, it seems like nothing is going to happen in a hurry. Monday will be a busy day."

Near panic. Calm down! But where have they gone? Have they left; gone back to her nest to continue rutting? Should not have had to take that little bit of time to indulge. Tsk, tsk. You have no control, none. But . . . it was wonderful, wasn't it. Found a special private space, out in the open, all alone, air all around. Shot it all into the bushes. No one would know, no one saw. Wonder where they are. Keep looking; they are here somewhere. He walked on.

They stopped by Jerry's lab to pick up the disc. "What is that?" Gleason asked.

"Something Jerry burned for me."

Gleason considered this and then said, "It's copy of the messages from my cell phone, isn't it?"

"Gleason, don't do this to yourself. It was a mistake to have you come in. You should not have been so close to those details of the investigation. I should have taken you to my place and then come in."

They headed to Bobby's apartment in silence. Bobby broke the silence with, "I want to stop and get some wine. What do you like? Are you red or white, sweet or dry?" he asked her glancing to his right with a smile.

She thought a minute and then answered, "You tell me."

"Oh, I see how this is going to go," he grinned. "Hmmm . . . let me see . . . well . . . I think . . . if I do what I'm supposed to do, and I do it right, you will be anything but dry. Did I figure right?"

She stared at him in pleasant surprise, turned in her seat to face him. "You dirty boy. You are quite the detective, but you didn't really answer your question. You tell me, what do I like."

Bobby smiled at her, enjoying the game. With a deeper, huskier voice, he began, "I bet you like . . . it slow, really, really slow, with lots and lots of touching. Slow touching everywhere; outside and then in. Touching with more than fingers. Wet touching, licking, sucking, softly, slowly, in all the places. I think you like it quiet, warm, dark; maybe candles and soft music." He had to shift in his seat. She stared at him, mouth slightly open. My God, she thought.

He continued, "You like to wait for it. Let it build; anticipate it. Wanting it, but wanting to wait for it. Letting it happen in its own time. Feeling it approach slowly, like warm soft waves, reaching further and further inward, upward. It might take hours to get there. And I think, when you get there, you just let go, let it happen, living in the moment, rising and falling, over and over, lots of times. Then I think you like to rest and start again."

She was stunned. He looked straight ahead, driving. She just stared at him. Finally, he glanced at her, "Well, is that what you like?" She still couldn't say anything. He glanced again, longer this time. He couldn't read her expression. Why doesn't she say something? Oh, God, what did I do? I've frightened her. "Gleason, I'm sorry." He reached for her hand. "Please forgive me. I didn't mean to frighten you. Ah, God."

But, she didn't pull away. In fact, she took his hand in both of hers, raised it, lifted his middle finger and slid it into her mouth. He gasped as she pulled her tongue along the underside length of his finger. Her tongue tickled the small web between his fingers. She sucked it, sliding it in and out of her mouth. He groaned audibly and whispered, "God almighty."


	18. Chapter 18

61

Rune Alignment

Chapter 18.

"So, you trying to pull some overtime, too?" Sledge asked Eames.

She looked up, smiled and replied, "No, just trying to get a head start on things."

"I translate that to mean you have no life, either, so you're going to spend your free Saturday time here."

"Please, don't remind me."

"What are you doing?"

Eames pushed her hair off her face with both hands, reached up with both arms and stretched. "I am adding to the to-do list Bobby gave me – us. That student showed up again." Sledge looked surprised. "Yeah, Bobby and the professor were at the farmer's market this morning and Elliott approached them. Apparently Bobby was her knight in shining armor."

"Oh? They were together?" Sledge said with a raised brow. Goren spent the night? Jesus, he's fast. How can such an oddball be that good with such a beautiful woman?

Eames nodded. "And, an envelope was slipped under her door sometime during the night. They brought it in to trace this morning."

"So, the big guy is a lover boy. I though he was made of stone. Or gay, ha!"

"Edward, why do you have to do that? Why do you have to make fun of Bobby?" Eames asked with exasperation.

"Because it is so easy," he answered.

Sledge looked at the tiny woman. She was so small, so strong. He could love her, did on some level. But he knew he stood no chance with her. She was in love with her partner, but she didn't know it yet. Goren sure as hell didn't love Alex; he respected her, admired her, maybe loved her like a buddy, or a sister, but he didn't _love_ her. Thank God for that. Sledge knew he had to lighten up on Goren if he wanted to get close to Alex.

Eames shook her head and went back to work, intending to ignore him.

"Ok, ok. Sorry. What does Bobby have for us to do?" Sledge asked trying to make peace. He pulled up a chair to sit beside Eames.

"Everything is waiting for Monday. Bishop needs to contact Interpol to see if the student is in their system. We'll need a warrant to get the messages from her home phone. Huang needs to listen to the calls and then begin a profile. We need to get the numbers from the caller ID on her cell and home phones. Bobby thinks they may all be pay phones. Once we have those, we can map the sites and correlate the time and distance. I think Martin is starting the voiceprints."

"What can I do?" he asked.

"Why don't you start with the call sites?"

"Sounds good," he said and headed off to find Jerry.

"You have to stop that. Please. Gleason, stop," Bobby said as he pulled to the curb.

Pulling his finger from her mouth, she asked, "You don't like it?"

"No, no, no, I like it, I like it. It's just that . . . we're here and . . . I, I can't go inside . . . yet." He took his hand from the wheel and crossed it with his other in his lap. "Give me a minute."

Gleason chuckled.

Finally he ushered her into the tiny wine shop. "Is Marlowe in today?" he asked a young man he hadn't seen before.

"Marlowe is home recuperating from gall bladder surgery. He won't be back for another week to ten days. Is there something I can help you find?"

"How's he doing?" Bobby inquired.

"Fine, so far as I know. What are you looking for?"

Bobby wasn't sure this kid knew a Riesling from a Weiss bier. "We'll look around."

Gleason had wandered off, looking at the stock, eyeing bottles of wine. She stopped and lifted a bottle from a rack. Bobby went to her, stood behind her, put his left hand on her left hip and pushed against her, pulling her toward him. "Feel that?" he whispered into her ear, "like that?" She smiled and leaned back against him. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"Do what?"

"That thing, with your mouth, back in the car."

She considered a moment and then said with a smile he couldn't see, "Watching porn."

He didn't respond, not knowing whether to believe her or not. He moved his hand slowly from her hip to her waist, under her tee shirt and upwards from there.

She whispered up to him, "Knock it off or I'll do you right here." He smiled down at her and took a step back and went to get his Weihenstephanuer Hefe Weiss bier.

"What did you find?" he asked, walking back to her side.

"This is a nice little wine shop." She held up a bottle, "Look at this, this is a good find. It is Cairn O'Mohar's Spring Oak Leaf from East Inchmichael, a little town in Errol. It's from a winery in Perthshire, between the River Tay and the Sidlow Hills. I haven't had this in years. And this, look at this, Silver Birch from Moniack Castle. One is sweet and one is dry. I never thought I'd find these anywhere but home." Her delight was clear, "I'm going to get these two, ok?"

This was a peek into her past, a happy piece of her past. She was glowing, remembering a wonderful time and place.

The vendors were packing up their wares. The crowd was thinning. Goddamn her! She left. He took her away. How could I not have known that? I've spent hours walking around, looking for that bitch and she's not even here. Where did he take her? Back to her place? I'm sure that's where they went. Back to her place. Damn them both.

"Are you getting hungry?" Bobby asked her, glancing at his watch, as they walked back to his car.

"What time is it?"

"About two forty," he answered, putting the wine and beer in the back with the market fare.

"If we eat now, we won't be hungry for supper later."

"Believe me, I can eat now and later and probably after that." He opened her door and helped her up.

"You are a big boy," she said with a smile as he shut the driver's side door behind him. "What do you want to do?"

He thought a moment and then said, "Let's go to my place, make a nice salad with what we bought and then go out for a nice, special dinner later tonight." He looked at her expectantly.

"That sounds lovely."

"Take a look at this print," Martin said to Jerry. "Huang will have a field day with this."

Jerry stepped beside his colleague and looked at the colorful series of spikes coming across the screen and then onto a strip of narrow paper. "Jesus," he whispered. "So that's what waxing your bike sounds like in color, huh?"

"How many of these calls are there?"

"Ten from the cell. The home phone messages will be here sometime Monday or Tuesday. I'm assuming they are just like these."

"Do you remember ever seeing anything like this?" Martin asked.

"No. We've had some strange stuff, but I'd remember something that looks like this."

"Yeah. This is whole new category."


	19. Chapter 19

63

Rune Alignment

Chapter 19

"So, the four pay phones are about twenty-two blocks apart, in four corners of the city." Sledge pointed as he talked. Eames was amazed at what he had accomplished. "The time code on each of the calls puts them at about twenty-, twenty-five minutes apart, just about enough time to drive from one phone to the next; depending on his exact route."

Sledge had gotten the caller ID numbers on the professor's cell from Jerry. He mapped the sites of the pay phones and configured the distance and time. He plotted all of the information on a street map of the city pinned to the conference room wall.

"You know, if he was doing what Goren claims, sharpening his sword as it were, these would have to be car side phones. I don't think he would stand out in the open and whittle his wood."

"Thank you for that colorful deduction. Is that what you guys call it – polishing and whittling?" She smiled and shook her head. "That is a huge bit of work you've done. It will put us a little bit ahead tomorrow. It probably won't do much good to pull the lugs from the phones at this late date, huh?"

"Probably not." Sledge looked at this watch, "What do you say we call it a day? How about if you let me take you out to dinner? Later, tonight. Someplace nice."

Eames looked at him, considering.

"My treat?"

She smiled and said, "I think that sounds dandy."

Bobby opened his phone and scrolled his contact list, found what he was looking for, hit 'send,' waited, and then said, "Is Guido in? May I speak with him? Bobby Goren."

They were still parked at the curb outside Marlowe's wine shop. Gleason watched him – phone to right ear, left hand on the wheel. He is so good looking, she thought. So kind. So sexy! That story he told, of what she would like, how she would like it . . . amazing. And, he was right on the money; with every detail. If he knew that about a woman, does that mean he likes it, too? She didn't realize it, but this was the first time she didn't catch herself or caution herself.

"Guido! It has been a long time, I know." Listening. "Yes, yes, you kind of figured, huh?" Listening. "Tonight? For two. Nine thirty, great. Thanks Guido. See you later." He folded shut his phone and said to her, "We're all set. Reservations for two at Bordegona at nine thirty tonight. I hope you like Italian."

She smiled at him and said, "Oh, you know what I like."

He stood across the street again, smoking, watching, and waiting. Her car was still there, but the copper's was not. Her apartment appeared dark. Where are they? She's done something to her home phone – it sounds different; just a little, but enough, an odd click where there hadn't been one before. That bitch! That bastard cop, he's put a trace on her phone, even though it doesn't matter, with all of the wonderful American pay phones. She can still hear the goodies that I leave her; little reminders of what once was, and will be again soon. That cunt whore thinks she is taking away my fun. But she is wrong, wrong, wrong, because she is stupid, stupid, stupid. Where are they, though? He crushed the butt and shoved his hands in his pocket. He felt nothing.

They carried the produce, bread, cheese, wine, and beer upstairs. Bobby opened his door and she entered first. "The kitchen is this way," he said, stepping in front of her. They set the food and drink on the counter and table. He took off his coat and held out his hand for her shawl and bag. Gleason started taking items from bags while he hung their things in the hall closet.

"I'll be right back," he said, unclipping his weapon from his belt. Bobby went down the hall to his bedroom, emptied his pockets and set his money clip, keys, shield and weapon on the dresser, keeping his penknife and handkerchief. He turned and caught sight of the bed. Oh, my, God – "Gleason, come here. You have to see this."

She entered his bedroom and said, "What?"

He walked to the bed and lifted something from the pillow. "Oh no!" she laughed out loud. "Did Estella do that? Tell me it was Estella and not you."

Bobby shook the strip of condoms, "Should I fire her or thank her?"

She moved to his side, wrapped an arm around his waist, and said, "Oh thank her, thank her."

They returned to the kitchen. "Let me make the salad," she said, "I bet you even have a big bowl."

"No, you sit and watch my magic. Do you want some wine?" He pulled out a chair and indicated that she sit.

"It's a little early for wine, isn't it? I'll just have some water, thank you."

He opened the fridge, removed a bottle of water and handed it to her with, "Do you want a glass? Ice?"

"No, this is fine, just like this." Americans and their ice, she thought with a smile.

Bobby started shifting things around in the fridge. He took out a container of Chinese food, opened it, sniffed and threw it in the bin under his sink. He found space for her wine and his beer. He removed two hard-boiled eggs, stood up, looked over the door and, holding up one in each hand, asked, "Eggs or no eggs in the salad?" Gleason wrinkled her nose and shook her head. He put them back.

They ate on a table that Gleason set. Everything matched, his cutlery was from one set, and even his paper napkins had the same design. He didn't have a tablecloth, but he did have matching place mats. This is nice, she thought.

Careful now, go slowly, lass. Are you really going to sleep with him tonight? You don't even know him; really know him now, do you? How much do you not know? You have no idea what lies beneath. He is clever, though, slipping in that sex talk, warming you up, and making it seem natural. She felt herself begin to panic, her fears returning, rising. The scars on her back prickled. Stop it! she screamed to herself. But you don't know what he will do. Her breath began to come in shallow whispering gasps. No, no, no, no, he is good. He is good. She dropped a fork as her hands flew to cover her face.

Bobby turned at the sound of the fork hitting the floor. He saw her trembling with her hands over her face, gasping. "What's wrong?" He moved to her, took her arms in his huge hands, she was shivering. "Gleason, what's wrong? Tell me." She moved into his chest and began to sob. He held her tight. He closed his eyes, his face showed his pain. He did not know what to think. He did not know what to do.

The sobs slowed and he stepped back to bend and look into her face. He reached for his handkerchief and gave it to her. Gently, softly he asked, "What happened?" She couldn't look at him. "Honey, tell me. What's wrong?"

"I have to stop this. You think I'm crazy, don't you?" She looked up, a sob shaking her.

Still so softly, "No, no. I would never think you are crazy. You're frightened, that's all. Come on, let's sit down." He led her to the sofa in the living room. He sat in the far corner, and she curled against him, holding onto his shirt, as she had done last night. They sat quietly.

"Bobby?"

"What?"

"I can't make love to you."

"That's alright."

"Do you want to know why?"

"Only if you want to tell me."

She sat up, a hand against his chest to lean on. "I don't know anything about you, not a thing. You don't know anything about me, really. I don't know what you'll do to me. If you'll hurt me, mark me. I don't know if you really are as good as you seem to be. I am so tired of being so afraid all the time. If we make love tonight, you'll see what he's done to me."

He looked at her, not knowing what to say next. "What did he do?"

She looked at him as she had not looked at him yet – deeply, seeking to know everything inside of him. She sat upright, put her feet on the floor and pulled off her tee shirt. Then she pulled off her undershirt and turned away from him.

Bobby didn't make a sound. His eyes traced the scars on her back. Wide, white welts crossed and curved to form a perfect, three-point Celtic knot. It covered her back from just below her neck to just above her waist. He wanted to touch her, but was afraid to do anything. Without knowing it, he put his hand lightly on the center of her back and gently moved his thumb over a scar. She didn't even jump. He reached for the crocheted throw that lay across the back of the sofa, pulled it down and put it around her, covering her. She turned back to face him, pulling the cover closed. Still he said nothing. Gleason curled up against him again. He held her.


	20. Chapter 20

66

Rune Alignment

Chapter 20.

Bobby's mind raced as he held her. Seeing the design on her back explained some of what he could make out from the messages. He had a million questions for Gleason. What did Clive use to burn the marks into her skin? How long ago had it happened? Had she gotten medical treatment? She must have, the burns were wide and appeared deep. Had the physicians contacted the authorities? She said she had lived with this guy for years, why didn't she leave him sooner? She stirred.

"You're hungry. Let's eat," she said as she uncurled herself from him and reached for her undershirt. Bobby watched as she let the crocheted throw fall, pulled the thin cotton knit over her head, and stretched it over her breasts. Her nakedness did not arouse him. He was almost numb with concern. She stood and tucked the bottom edge into her slacks and reached for the shirt he held. He stood and dressed her like a child. They held each other, and then silently moved to the kitchen.

He finished making the salad while she found the butter and two bottles of dressing in the fridge. She took out a beer and the bottle of Silver Birch. "Do you have a bottle opener and cork screw?" He opened a drawer and handed her the tool. "Do you want a glass for your beer?" He shook his head no. "Do you have a wine glass?" He stepped to a cupboard, took a glass, and gave it to her. He was being awfully quiet. She opened his beer, noticed that her hands were shaking, set it at his place and began to open the wine bottle. She fumbled trying to set the screw, tried again, it slid across the top of the cork, her hands shook, she kept trying, "I . . . can't . . . get this to. . ."

Bobby turned with the salad bowl, put it on the table and took the opener and bottle from her. He set them aside and took the back of her neck in his left hand, pulled her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth, his tongue seeking hers. His right hand stroked her face, neck and throat. He felt her relax and move against him. The kiss broke and he whispered deeply, his lips on her neck, just below her ear, "I am good. I swear I will never ever hurt you. I want to take care of you, protect you. Trust me. Please, trust me."

She pulled away just a bit, took his head in her hands and searched his eyes. "I want to. I want to." She kissed him lightly, ran her thumbs over his cheekbones, smiled and they stepped apart.

Eames was excited about her date. Sledge was a nice guy, a little boorish at times, but only with Bobby. She couldn't understand why they hated each other so much. She figured Bobby just thought Edward was a jerk, which he was a lot of the time. But there had to be more, Edward's juvenile humor should garner little more than distain. Bobby really could not stand the guy. I wonder what happened between them.

She smiled as she thought of tonight. Sledge said he would pick her up at eight. She glanced at the clock on her dash, four thirty. She had plenty of time. What to wear? He said some place nice. A dress, she couldn't remember the last time she wore a dress, especially to work. She had that nice beige dress from Ellen's wedding. Yes, that fit nicely, was cut just right, not too revealing, but low enough for interest's sake. She would even take a bath instead of a shower. She smiled at her tingle.

He slammed down the phone and nearly screamed out loud in frustration. Goddamn her all to hell! He was reluctant to leave a message on her home phone. Every time he dialed her number, he heard that new click right before the message to leave a message. He didn't want to give the coppers any more information or ammunition than they already had.

Where is she? That prick cop has taken her away. He has tried to turn her against me. He will try to woo her with fun times, warm sex; but it won't work. No, Gleason will be thinking of me while she pretends to come under him. She will be thinking of me; and what I do to her. She misses me; I am sure.

It will be dark in a few hours. Then I can search for her in my car. Maybe I'll try a stakeout like the copper. Watch for her, watch for them. They won't see me. I'll be safely hiding in my car. I can do anything in the dark in my car.

The digital counter in the audio lab recorded another hit on Wintermantle's home phone. The machine noted the phone number and time of every call into her home phone. So far, seventeen calls from six different phones calls had been made over the last four hours.

"You're not eating," Bobby said to her. He had watched her take a bite of tomato and a tiny bite of cheese. Her piece of bread sat untouched. Nonetheless, she poured to fill her half-full second glass of wine.

"I'm eating," she answered and took another drink. Her hands had finally stopped shaking.

"You don't like the salad, the dressing? Want me to make up some vinaigrette?"

"No. This is fine. What is this anyway?" she asked holding up the bottle of dressing to read the label. "Ah, it's good." She took another bite of tomato to please him. And then another big sip of wine to please herself.

"You like that wine, huh?" He'd noticed she was nearly finished with her second glass – and a half.

"Oh, yes," another big sip. "It reminds me of a good, good time, a long, long time ago in a place far, far away. Do you want to try some? Here." She drained the glass, took the bottle, and began to fill it a third time. He stopped her hand holding the bottle and took it from her with his other hand. She looked at him with surprise, "What?"

"That's a lot of wine with no food. Eat something before you have more to drink." He set the bottle on the counter behind him. He reached for her piece of bread and spread butter on it. "Here, eat this."

Gleason took a big sigh and knew she should listen to him. She knew she was on the edge of getting sloshed, she felt so light behind her eyes, always a bad – or good – sign. She didn't want to waste that great wine getting drunk. Silver Birch is a wine to savor. She took the bread from his hand and took a bite. It was good. He cut another piece of cheese and she took that as well.

Jerry and Martin finished the voiceprints. Essentially each one was like another. Series of tall and short colored spikes traced along strips of paper. Martin clipped them together and catalogued them in the evidence file. He analyzed the prints on the screen for what they said about the caller. Jerry walked over.

"Ha, look at these," Martin pointed to several points on the screen, "this guy has an accent. Look at the distance."

Jerry leaned in close to see clearly, "I wonder if Goren knows that. Can you tell what kind of accent?"

Martin looked at this friend, "I'm a technician and this is a machine, together we're not God. Give me a break."

"Jeeze, ok. What else can you tell?"

"Well, not only is this guy wiping down his club, he's pissed off, too."

"How can you tell? Show me."

"See, here, where this spike and this one, all of these, go from purple at the bottom then change to increasingly lighter shades of red as they rise? Red, my friend, is the color of anger. His voice tightens and rises as he lives the fury."

"But, how can you tell it's fury causing the rising and tightening? What if his own 'handiwork' makes his voice go like that?" Jerry asked.

Martin looked at his friend and shook his head, "Jerry, when you polish the banister, do you make those kinds of sounds?"


	21. Chapter 21

69

Rune Alignment

Chapter 21

"All done?"

"Yes. Did I eat enough for you?"

"You did well. Come on, why don't you take a nap while I clean up?" He took her by the hand and led her back to the bedroom.

"Will you take a nap with me? Hold me like last night? I would like that."

"You lie down and I'll clean up the kitchen. Ok?"

"Alright." Gleason was buzzed and that made her agreeable. She sat on the edge of his bed and he bent to take off her shoes. "Wait, which side is your side of the bed? I don't want to take over here, you know. Don't want to be pushy."

He had to smile, she was kind of cute drunk, not that drunk was ever a good thing – but she was kind of cute. "You just lie down and rest."

She lay down on top of the coverlet and rolled onto her left side, away from where he stood. "Can I have that cover from the living room?"

"Of course." Bobby gathered up the throw and brought it back. Gleason was asleep. He gently laid it over her, put one hand on the headboard, leaned down and kissed her head softly.

Martin did a system search for other prints of similar make up. The results showed a few; he examined those and read the narratives, none referenced anything comparable to what they had from the professor's caller; mostly voices on drugs, angel dust or PCP. Martin was eager to get the disc to Huang for his take on the calls. Bet this guy is one loony, he thought.

"Let's head out, what do you say?" Jerry asked Martin. "We've put in a full day; at least I have," he continued with a smile. "Want to go get a beer?"

"No, I need to get home. Let me close things up and I'll walk out with you."

They walked from the lab, trying to think of more euphemisms for "shining the barrel."

Bobby finished in the kitchen, took the disc of cell phone messages from his coat pocket, and walked into the living room. He inserted the disc into the CD player tray, shut it and plugged in the earphones. He sat down on the sofa, elbows on knees, fingers laced under his chin, and began to listen to the messages.

He tried to listen clinically, separating the caller from the role of Gleason's antagonist. He listened for anything that would give him a clue as to who was making the calls. It was repulsive, listening to the man masturbate. In his mind, Bobby tried to ignore the sounds of sex, tried to focus on the words he could make out. Louise in transcription, the best at snatching words from a storm of noise, was never going to be able to make sense of this, he thought, even if she doesn't refuse the job when she learns what she's hearing.

He stopped the player, took off the earphones and got his portfolio from the table beside the door. He returned to the sofa, replaced the earphones, pushed 'play,' and opened to a clean page. He began to write what he was able to decipher.

Eames soaked in lavender scented bathwater. I should do this more often, she told herself. She thought about Sledge. He was tall, good looking and not enough of a jerk to put her off completely. He was one hell of a detective, she saw this afternoon. Still, he wasn't Bobby.

Bobby was . . . taller, maybe not as good looking as Edward, but better built. Bobby was . . . probably the smartest man she had ever known, even though his intelligence rendered him a little odd. However, his oddness was endearing in a way. Edward was smart, no doubt, but not in the ways Bobby was smart. Bobby was . . . a true, old-fashioned gentleman. Edward was a modern man, a "let women get there on their own" kind of guy. Not that there was anything wrong with that, being the modern woman she was; but, still, it was so nice when a man did such a little thing like open the door. If men only knew.

Well, Edward is coming and Bobby is not, she told herself. She ran her hand up her leg and looked for the shaver.

"Darling, where are you?" he shook the umbrella closed as he entered the flat. "Are you home? I've brought you something."

Gleason froze when she heard him come in. Thunder seemed to announce the coming doom. She covered her mouth with both hands to smother the mewling. Don't be afraid, don't be afraid. He won't do it if you're not afraid. Pretend everything is normal.

The knob turned on the bedroom door, "Here you are! You are not hiding, are you love? What a pretty blouse, is it new? The color is just right for you. Why don't you slip it off for now? I have something for you." He held out a small bag and continued, his voice darkening, "Take it off. Do it! Take that goddamn rag off your back." He moved behind her, grabbed the blouse by the neck and ripped the shirt from her body. He did the same with her camisole and she stood naked from the waist up.

Gleason awoke with a start and a gasp – that dream, that same dream. She looked around and did not know where she was. Nothing looked familiar; oh God, where am I, what have I done, she shouted in her mind. She looked at the throw covering her, this is not mine, she thought. Slowly, quietly she got up from the bed and looked around. On the dresser, she saw a gun in a hip holster, a set of keys, money clip and a badge. Bobby's. This is Bobby's flat. I took a nap, that's right.

She left the throw on the bed and walked down the hall. She stopped at the living room, but didn't enter. Bobby was on the sofa, wearing earphones with his portfolio opened on his left thigh. She watched him lean back with eyes closed. He grimaced and rubbed his eyes with his right hand. Then he uttered a sound of disgust, sat up and wrote something in the notebook. She stood perfectly still, he didn't notice her.

He's listening to the calls, she figured. He's listening and writing down what was said. She continued to watch Bobby. He set his pencil on the notebook, sat forward, elbows on knees, and covered his face with his huge hands. She heard him mumble something like, 'Jesus Christ.' He took up the pencil and scribbled something. He's trying to figure out who made the calls. He is trying to help me, protect me. He is good.

"You look terrific," Sledge said standing at Eames' door. "Wow! You clean up nice."

Eames had to think a moment about that last comment, "Thanks, I think. Where are we going?"

"We have reservations at nine at Bordegona, an Italian place on 67th. I thought we might take a carriage ride and stop for drinks beforehand. So few New Yorkers do the neat New York things. If that's ok with you. You do like Italian, I hope." Sledge looked at her expectantly.

Eames looked at him like he was from Mars. "Uh, yes, yes on both. Let me get my purse. Come on in." She turned back into the room; Edward followed her in and shut the door. "I'll be right back," she said and headed for her room. She shut the bedroom door and stood in front of the mirror. Who the hell is that? she asked herself, Certainly not Edward Sledge. And Bordegona? that place is booked a month ahead. A carriage ride – that is the most romantic thing ever. She checked her face and returned to the living room.

Edward stood as she entered the room. "Ready?" Edward opened the door, stepped aside and followed Eames through.


	22. Chapter 22

61

Rune Alignment

Chapter 22

Bobby growled and tore the earphones from his head, tossed them aside, stood, and rubbed the back of his neck with his left hand. Gleason watched him pace in a four-step box, right hand chopping away at the problem. He murmured to himself, not seeing her standing there, so deep in his thinking he was. Suddenly he saw her and immediately stopped. They looked at each other.

"How long have you been standing there?" he asked her.

"Long enough," she answered.

"Did you sleep well? Feel ok?" He bent over and shut his portfolio.

"I had that dream again."

He looked puzzled, "What dream?"

She crossed the room to him and replied, "The same dream I've been having for years. It doesn't matter." She leaned against him and asked, "How long did I sleep?"

He checked his watch and said, "Almost two hours. We need to think about getting ready for dinner. How should we do this?" Gleason shook her head as if to say, it's up to you. Bobby thought a moment and then suggested, "Why don't I get ready here, then we go to your place and you get ready and then we go." His hands indicated the sequence. "We'll see where we are on time and maybe do something nice before dinner. Sound like a plan?"

"Sounds good to me."

He gave her a quick kiss and said, "I'll be out in a few," and headed for his bedroom.

"Bobby?" He stopped and turned. "Don't shave." He smiled and nodded.

He stood at his closet considering what to wear. A part of him wanted to ask her to shower with him; but he knew that was way, way off. She is so fragile, he thought. She needs to see someone when this is all over. He made his selection and stepped to the bathroom.

Gleason sat on the sofa. Bobby's portfolio sat beside her. She looked down at it, Coach, huh? Expensive. It was well used, still in excellent condition, but it was clear that it was a tool, not an accessory. He had been listening to the calls and writing notes. He had looked disgusted. She looked across the room, considering.

If I look, I'll betray a trust, he'll think less of me when he learns that I looked; and he'll find out, they always do. Plus, if I look, what he wrote will upset me, I'll probably freak out again. He's going to get tired of me and my emotional shenanigans. I should get some pills. And, in the end, I don't even want to know. I've lived it, there's nothing new in those calls. What happens, happens. Her sense of resignation surprised her. She stood and walked into the kitchen for a bottle of water, no ice.

Edward had a car waiting, not a cab, a car – with a driver. Eames stood in disbelief, her mouth open, she looked up at Edward. He smiled and nodded, "I wanted this to be special." The driver smiled at the little lady, opened the door and Edward guided her in.

"Edward, I am stunned." She couldn't stop smiling. "I feel like I'm going to the prom."

"Just wanted it to be nice. You deserve nice, more than nice, but this is nice. I'm glad you're happy."

The driver stopped at the carriage livery at Central Park. "Enjoy your ride," he said to the pair as they exited.

Sledge led Eames to the first carriage in the queue, the driver was expecting them. "Evenin', folks," he said with a nod, a tip of his hat and a wonderful smile. He pulled a short step stool from nowhere, set it below the first step and took Eames' right hand in his. He took her right elbow in his left hand and virtually lifted her in. She turned and watched Sledge climb in. A velvet and wool throw lay on the seat. Sledge lifted it and exposed a bouquet of mixed flowers.

"Edward! Oh . . . I . . . I don't know what to say."

"Just enjoy. Here have a seat." Sledge was having as much fun as Eames. He was delighted by her surprise. She is so tiny and sweet, he thought still smiling.

She sat and he joined her, sitting close; he put an arm around her and she snuggled in. He pulled the cover over their laps and up onto her left arm. The driver turned from his seat, nodded with two fingers to his hat, and smiled and faced forward. "Hett! Up!" and off they went.

Gleason sat at the kitchen table thinking, not thinking, remembering, wondering, hoping, fearing, wishing. She was a million miles away when Bobby turned the corner and entered the kitchen. She heard him come in and turned. She couldn't believe what she saw.

He stood, feet apart, in a midnight blue, almost black, suit with a plain maroon silk sweater. The suit had an interesting sheen as the jacket turned from his chest to his shoulders. The sweater covered him from neck to belt, but showed the mind what promises where underneath. He wore dress shoes with socks that matched his sweater. He hadn't shaved and his hair was just mussed enough. "Is . . . is, this – ok?" he asked with arms outstretched. She saw his weapon clipped to his left hip.

Gleason stood slowly, took the two steps to him, and said, "You just keep getting better and better."

He smiled and seemed to relax. He checked his watch and said, "Well, should we go to your place?" He removed her shawl and bag from the closet, handed her the bag and draped the shawl around her shoulders.

She couldn't take her eyes from him. She couldn't stop smiling. He opened the door and ushered her out.


	23. Chapter 23

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Chapter 23

Ah, it is so nice in my car, my dark, safe car. He had parked on the street, in the same spot Bobby had parked a few days ago. It will be completely dark soon, then I can wait, watch and indulge if I like. Oh yes, I am sure I will indulge, he said to himself with a smile. Unconsciously, his hand moved to his belt buckle and began to undo it.

Bobby and Gleason rode the distance to her apartment in near silence. The silent times between them did not bother Bobby. It was what they call a 'comfortable silence.' He wondered, however, what Gleason was thinking in the silence. He thought about her. He had remembered that he left his portfolio on the sofa while he was in the shower. Damn! I should have put it away. But she hadn't read it; he saw that it hadn't been touched when they were leaving. Looking back, Bobby didn't think she would have opened the notebook anyway. She was either not interested or terrified. Neither one was a good thing.

"Edward, this is such a surprise," Eames told him. She hadn't stopped smiling yet.

"I wanted you to have a good time." They rode in silence.

The city is magical at night. The lights, people out walking; the night seems to wrap the city in a dark filter, traffic noises seem less obnoxious, edges are not so sharp. The sound of the horse's hooves cast an easy rhythm, a lulling sound set to the easy rocking. Eames could hear the leaves on the trees. The evening air was just right – not cold, but brisk.

She felt the warmth from Edward's body through the cropped evening jacket. He was big, and strong, but not as strong as Bobby was. You have to cut it out, she told herself. Stop comparing Edward to Bobby. It's not fair to Edward. You are with him, so be with him. Eames snuggled closer to Edward and his heart soared.

What have we here? W-e-l-l . . . it is about time. Where have they been all day? Rutting at his place? I wouldn't doubt it. His fingers unbuttoned his pants.

He and his big, gas guzzling SUV, there's enough room in there to have a go. But they'll do it upstairs, in her bed. Or, ooooh, maybe he'll bend her over the kitchen table. I've done that to her, on a number of occasions; it was fantastic . . . looking at my artwork while jamming away at her.

He watched them walk to her building. Ah, there he is – my, my all gussied up are we? There's my darling . . . not so dressed up, my love? Did he go off to some place nice and fancy this afternoon, and leave you behind? I don't doubt it. Especially after he saw my artwork. Or, he's brought you home, done with you; now going out to find another pretty lass to fuck. Was he good for you? Did he satisfy you? Oh, of course not, he can't do what I can do. You had to fake your comes just to get him to finish and get off you. Poor dear. His fingers slowly pulled down the zipper.

"I won't be long," Gleason said, dropping her shawl and bag on the couch. "Want anything while you wait?"

"No, thank you. Take your time, we have plenty." She started toward the hall, already lifting her tee shirt. Bobby stood in the middle of her living room. He took it all in with one sweep. There's nothing here, he thought, no pictures, photos, not even a clock. It's as if she has no past, left it all behind, as if she erased it. He sat on the edge of the couch and ran his hand over the fabric, worn and faded. He looked at the small table, the lamp – noticing the scratches in the wood and the crack in the lamp base. This is all second hand, he realized. He glanced at the kitchen and recalled how little she had, a few spoons, forks, knives, no real cooking implements. Nothing matched. He remembered her bedroom, just a box spring and mattress, no head or footboard; an old three legged stool for a nightstand, the only clock beside the phone, and a small, almost child-sized dresser. She wore no jewelry. She is prepared to leave everything behind and run when she needs to. She has no attachments.

Gleason stepped across the hall to her bedroom wrapped in a towel. I only have that one dress, she told herself. It will be ok, it's nice, and it fits. She pulled the sleeveless, drape-y black dress from the closet and held it up – and it covers my back. She stepped into the only fancy panties she had, black with tiny lace along the top edge. She smiled; I never thought I would ever wear these. She slipped the dress over her head, shifted her breasts to fill the front. Thank goodness, I saved those strap-y black shoes. She sat on the edge of the bed, stepped into the shoes and buckled them. The only mirror was in the bathroom.

Bobby went to the kitchen for a glass of water. He took a glass from the cupboard and let the tap run a bit. He drank, wiped the glass and returned it to the cupboard. He pulled open the fridge – nothing new since this morning, nothing much at all, in fact. She must shop European style, just what you need for the day. He really did clean her out fixing breakfast. Need to get her some food.

Gleason stood in front of the mirror, what are you doing, lass? she asked herself. I'm going out with a good man. He is good; I know he's good, don't I. He is good. He is good. She took her brush and began to roll her hair in a ring from her temple, around the back, to the other temple. She pinned it securely. There, that looks nice. Gleason wore no make up. Wish I had some lip-gloss. She crossed the hall one more time.

What is taking him so long? He should be done with her by now. He should be on his way, to the next fuck. My poor dear, she'll pine for him – no she won't! She'll think of me, pine for me. She'll want me, remembering all the good things I've done to her, for her. No one can do to her what I've done.

Maybe she'll reach for herself, thinking of me. Slip her hand inside her panties, feel for her slit. Yes, thinking of me will make her wet, she'll dip into the wet, smear her juice all over down there. Ah, so good. He shifted, reached into his pants and lifted himself out.

Edward checked his watch as the driver helped Eames out of the carriage. The driver jumped up and retrieved the bouquet. He presented them to her with a tip of his hat and a nod. "Enjoy the rest of this lovely evening."

"We should head to the restaurant; it's about twenty to nine." The car driver was standing at the back passenger door, waiting. He pulled it open with a smile, stepped aside and Eames entered. Sledge slid in next to her. "Well, so far so good?"

"You are a surprise, Edward. This is wonderful. Who knew you could treat a lady like this?"

Edward beamed and took her hand. He wanted to kiss her, a light kiss, chaste; but he didn't. It was too soon, she would misunderstand. So, instead, he said, "I'm glad you agreed to go out with me. I've wanted this for a long time."

Eames stared up at this man, "Edward, I didn't know. I, I, had no idea." She didn't know what else to say.

Edward smiled at her and said to the driver, "We should go to the restaurant."

"Yes sir."

Gleason stood inside her bedroom door wondering, Should I or shouldn't I? So she just did it; she opened her closet door and found the small overnight carpetbag. She took panties, an undershirt, socks, a pair of jeans and a sweater from the small dresser and set them inside the bag. She crossed to the bathroom and returned with her toothbrush, hairbrush and deodorant. She put them inside as well. She found her shoes and included them. Finally, she took a large, long black wool scarf, slung it around her shoulders, and walked back into the living room with the carpetbag.


	24. Chapter 24

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Chapter 24.

Bobby stood when Gleason came down the hall. He looked her up and down. She looks like a model, he thought, that dress. "This is all I have. It's alright, isn't it?"

He crossed to her, put his hands on her shoulders, moved them to her arms and said, "You are unbelievable." The dress did fit perfectly; it fell to just above her ankles in scarf like points. The bodice criss-crossed her bosom and met the skirt at her waist. The dress made her appear taller, it cinched her waist and accentuated her bosom – it was perfect.

He spotted the carpetbag. "That's one heck of an evening bag," he said with a smile.

"Oh, this, I actually don't have an evening bag. Can you carry my keys?"

"Certainly. Do I know what's in that bag?" Bobby asked.

Gleason reddened a little and said, "Yes, it's what you think. I am embarrassed."

"Embarrassed? Gleason, you've made me very happy." He gave her a hug and got a whiff of cinnamon.

"I don't need to take the new cell phone, do I? Because you'll have to carry it."

"No, I'm not letting you out of my sight." He took the bag and ushered her to the door. Gleason took her keys from her shoulder bag on the couch, and handed them to Bobby. He opened the door, she stepped through and he pulled it shut and locked it, slipping her keys into his pocket. She had pushed the elevator button and held the door for him.

In the elevator, on the way down, he said, "Can I ask you something?"

Surprised, she looked up at him and said, "Of course, anything."

"How is it that you smell like cinnamon?"

"It's my soap. It's from home. Do you like it?"

"There is something so sexy about cinnamon. That was one of the first things I noticed about you – that first day. Apart from your beauty, and the sound of your voice, and your brilliant mind, and your humor. . . "

"Ok, stop it. You're beginning to sound insincere." The elevator door opened and they stepped out.

Bobby held the lobby door for her and together they walked to his car.

What is this . . . what the hell are they doing? Look how she is dressed, whore, cunt whore! He is ruining her. What is that . . . her carpetbag? That old piece of shit rug bag. She's planning to spend the night at his place. The bastard copper, he's stolen her from me. Calm down. Calm down. She needs to play this little charade with him. This is not a real date, they're pretending. She's imagining that I am he. That's it – she misses me and wants me. But she knows she can't have me, not yet – soon, but not yet. I see, she is using him to enjoy me. She'll have to teach him what to do. He's a big stud, probably dumb as an ox, and hung like one. He watched himself begin to harden.

The car pulled up in front of the restaurant at ten of nine. "Here we are," Sledge said as he helped Eames from the car.

"I'm going to leave these flowers here till later."

"I'll take care of those for you, Miss," the driver interjected. Eames smiled her thanks.

Eames had never been to Bordegona. Local Chinese and pizza places, that delivered, were her usual fare.

A man in a tuxedo walked up smiling. "Edward."

"Guido, haven't seen you in a long time." He extended his hand to his old friend who returned the shake.

"Come, come I have a good place for you." Guido led the pair to a table on the right side of the big room. It was secluded. "This is a very lovely woman, Edward. Don't tell me she packs powder like you do."

"Alex, this is Guido Mariempetre, a good friend of mine. Guido, this is Detective Alex Eames."

Guido took her hand and kissed the back. "I bet you can take down a Sumo wrestler, can't you?"

"I do what I need to do," she smiled at him.

He snapped a finger over his right shoulder and a server approached with a standing wine bucket. The man opened the bottle and set it back in the bucket. He smiled, nodded and left.

"Enjoy, take your time," Guido said stepped away.

Bobby set her bag in the back, went around, got in and closed his door. "You look wonderful," he told her and leaned over for a quick kiss. She smiled and felt happy. He looked at his watch and thought to himself, we have about an hour, twenty minutes to the restaurant . . .; yeah, we have time.

"What were you figuring?" Gleason asked.

"What makes you think I was figuring anything?"

"Because you looked at your watch, and then looked to the left, your logical, analytical side. I'm right, aren't I, you were figuring something."

He looked at her and a smile crept over his face. "Now where did you learn about things like that?"

"Oh detective, you may know what I like, but you don't know everything," she returned with a sly look.

"Well, we're going to change that tonight."

"So, what were you figuring?"

Well! I wonder where they are going. Some place fancy it would seem. Shall I follow; peek in on their good time? Perhaps I should wait for them to return, wait for them to go to bed. Then I can play along with them from here. A ménage a trios from afar! I can do the things here that she would want him to do in there. Oh, such things I can do, things she misses, wants, tries to get the copper to do. But he can't, he cannot do what I do. He cannot satisfy her like I can. I can make her come, really come. He gripped himself.


	25. Chapter 25

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Chapter 25.

"What would you like?" Edward asked her.

"I'm . . . I'm not sure. Why don't you order for me?"

"Really? You trust me?" he asked incredulously.

"Edward, of course I trust you. What a silly question. Go ahead, order for me."

The server returned, took the wine bottle and poured a bit into Edward's glass. He tasted it, nodded his approval and the server filled Alex's glass.

"Where are we going?" Gleason asked.

"It's a surprise."

"Tell me."

"Then it won't be a surprise." He turned and smiled at her.

He looked at his watch, tapped two fingers on the wheel and seemed to speed up a bit. Five minutes later, he pulled to the curb in front of a row of small shops; still open this late.

"Come on," he said, opening her door.

"Bobby, what is going on?"

He took her hand and led her to a small shop a few doors from the car. A bell hanging from the inside top corner of the door announced their arrival when it opened into an art gallery of sorts.

A thin, bald man raised his head from working under a mounted magnifying glass. "Bobby Goren! My God, it's been years! How are you?" He stood and came around the short counter and the two men shook hands warmly.

"Tim! I wasn't sure you were still here. I'm glad to see you. This is my friend, Gleason. Gleason, this is Tim."

"I'm glad to meet you, Tim."

"You are one beautiful woman, if you don't mind me being so forward." Tim looked at Bobby approvingly. "What can I do for you two?"

"Uh, Tim," Bobby began to shuffle and rubbed his left thumb along his lower lip, "umm, do you . . . remember . . . that thing . . . from that one time when you . . . and I. . ."

"Yes, yes, I remember. Let me get it." He smiled at Gleason and went in the back.

Gleason looked at Bobby and shook her head. He put an arm around her waist and kissed her temple.

"Here it is, safe and sound. It hasn't seen the light of day since . . . since, then." Tim handed a small, flat box to Bobby.

"I don't have to check to see if this box is empty, do I?"

"Jeeze, Bobby, I'm shocked. And hurt." Tim opened a palm on his chest. "But, you do know me, don't you? No, it's in there."

Bobby slipped the box into his breast pocket. "Thanks Tim." They shook hands and embraced in that manly way.

"Enjoy."

The bell on the door announced their exit.

Edward and Eames enjoyed their _isalata alla caprese_ as they chatted about their lives.

Edward reached over and took Alex's hand, rubbing his thumb along the top. She is so damn cute, he thought. Edward found the fact that Eames actually could take down a Sumo wrestler, being as tiny as she was, incredibly sexy.

The server removed their plates. Edward reached for her other hand.

"What was that all about?" Gleason asked.

"I wanted to stop and see an old friend before dinner."

"Bobby . . . what's in the box?"

"It's a surprise."

"Tell me."

"Then it won't be a surprise."

He looked at her beside him, reached for her hand and smiled. She grinned back.

Bobby pulled up to Valet parking. The attendant opened Gleason's door and helped her down. Bobby pulled a bill from his money clip, handed it to the runner and slipped the call tag into his clip. He crossed to Gleason, put an arm around her and they entered the restaurant.

"Bobby, Bobby! How are you? It is so good to see you," Guido said, arms open.

Bobby embraced his friend, "Guido! I'm fine. How is Bella?"

"Oh, she is more beautiful than when I married her. Who is this, your Bella?"

"No. No," Bobby chuckled, and did a two-step shuffle. "This beautiful woman is my friend, Gleason. Gleason, this is Guido."

"You, lovely lady, look like a Bella for Bobby," he took her hand and kissed it. "Come, I have a good table for you."

Gleason felt herself redden.

Guido showed the couple to a secluded table on the left side of the spacious, but intimate dining room. Guido held Gleason's chair and then stepped behind Bobby who took the chair to the right of Gleason, not across from her. Bobby faced the dining room. Gleason let the scarf drop from her shoulders and Guido was right there to lay it across the top of her chair back.

"Is this good?" Guido asked Bobby.

Bordegona was known for its' classic décor and intimate ambience. The other tables were to his right. Bobby glanced around and nodded. He spoke to Gleason, "Is this table all right?"

Her smiled said everything. "Yes, Guido, thank you, this is fine."

"I'll get you the wine list."

"So," Bobby said, reaching for her hand.

"So," she replied, looking at him.

"So, tell me where you were born."


	26. Chapter 26

5

Rune Alignment

Chapter 26.

"Well," Gleason took a deep breath and began, "I was born in a commune on a small island between North Ronaldsay and Fair Isle, in the North Sea."

"A commune, you mean hippies?" he asked incredulously.

"They considered themselves . . . artists. And they were, many of them."

"How big was this commune?"

"As I remember, seven women and nine men made up the core group. People came and went over the years. I was seventh of nine children. We had no insular family units; everyone looked after everyone else. None of us children really knew who of the adults were whose parents.

"However, Christian MacNaughton was a big, hulking red-haired giant of a man who seemed to watch over me more than he did the others. I think he may have been my father, the red hair and all. I don't know which woman was my mother. Christian and Nora were devoted, but I never felt anything from her, or the other women."

He stared, trying to process this.

"So, tell me where you were born," she said.

Bobby shared his family's story – his mother's illness, his father's philandering, his father's death a few years ago, his older brother's troubled youth and troubled adulthood.

"How often do you see your mum?"

"Once a week, Carmel Ridge is not far from the city. I call her everyday, well almost everyday. She has good days and not so good days. The staff has done a wonderful job keeping her disease under control. But she's getting older and she's beginning to have other health problems."

It was obvious to Gleason how much Bobby loved his mother. He spoke softly, lovingly about her. His face softened as he shared his mother with her. It was also clear how badly he felt about his father's behavior. She sensed Bobby realized how the circumstances of his mother's illness, that and the responsibilities for two young boys, overwhelmed his father, how that was the reason for his father's conduct, his way of dealing with it. Bobby's distain for his brother was apparent, he spoke briefly and harshly of him. It occurred to Gleason that Bobby was more like their mother and his brother took after their father. She wondered if the possibility of her illness passing to him was a concern to Bobby.

Guido arrived with the wine list. "What does the lady like, red or white?"

Bobby and Gleason both laughed out loud.

Eames and Edward enjoyed their dinner and learned about each other's lives. Eames realized that Edward's glibness hid a damaged upbringing. She also realized how gentle and sweet he could be. He was sensitive to other people's feelings, but sometimes reacted to them inappropriately. His cockiness masked deep-set insecurities. They didn't talk about his relationship with Bobby.

Edward was falling in love with this woman. She was so many things she didn't appear to be. She came from a long line of cops. Her father and brothers, two of them anyway, were cops, big guys, strong guys, respected by other cops. He thought it was a hoot that she became a cop, too. She was petite, but her size belied her physical strength. She was so strong and a hell of a shot, he liked that. On the surface, Alex seemed disaffected by the brutality of their job; but compassion moved her on a deep level. She was smart. She was a superb detective in her own right; she didn't just bask in the successes of her asshole partner.

Bobby and Gleason enjoyed their _isalata alla caprese_. The wine was perfect. 

"Do you have a birth certificate?" Bobby asked

"Our documentation was done when we children were taken into Child Protection."

"What do you mean?"

"The authorities broke up the commune when I was seven. Apparently, one of the men was trading magic mushrooms for marijuana on runs to the mainland. He traded with an undercover officer and got nicked. The authorities arrested all of the adults on charges like delinquent or absent tax assessments, other drug charges. They accused the adults of neglecting us, one man was suspected of abusing a boy."

"Was any of that true?"

"I don't know. I was seven, a kid. I remember Christian screaming for them not to take me away from him. They placed us in Child Protection. I never saw Christian or any of the others again."

She was unbelievingly beautiful. The dim restaurant lighting and candlelight from the table cast glows and shadows that moved along the planes of her face. Tiny curls escaped from the fantastic ring of red hair that wreathed her head. Light caught and curved off those curls like sparks. Her skin was flawless, I don't think she wears make-up, Bobby thought. Her eyes held him. He had noticed that her eyes changed with the colors she wore. Tonight her eyes were the color of dark blueberries, candlelight bounced back from specks of gold. He watched her pulse under the thin skin of her neck. He wanted to suck that pulse.

"I was ROTC in high school and enlisted after graduation. After basic, I served as an MP in Munich. I had a great time, enjoyed the travel and considered re-upping."

"Did you?"

"No, uh, no I didn't." He looked down at the table and kneaded his fingers.

Gleason wanted to ask why, but did not. She wondered if his mother's illness, and his father's and brother's indifference, was a factor.

"So you became a civilian police officer here."

"Actually, I used the GI Bill for four years of college and I graduated with degrees in criminal justice and psychology. Then I entered the academy."

"Two degrees in four years, that's impressive."

"I like to learn. What happened while you were in Child Protection?"

This man is wonderful, she thought. He is so good looking – his eyes . . . dark portals into his being. The way he looks at me, the way his eyes move over my face, my body, his eyes touch my skin, I can feel them slide along me, he makes me feel naked.

She watched his hands as he talked. His hands were puppets that illustrated, indicated, and emphasized his words. They danced in the air with a grace that added an additional layer of meaning to what he said. His fingers were long, with a gentle strength. She had felt his fingers on her face, neck, throat. They were soft yet powerful. Gleason thought back to the time Bobby had rubbed his thumb over her nipple, the shock of pleasure; she had moistened then. She felt that thumb again, and moistened now. She imagined what else he could do with those hands, those fingers. Where he could put them, slide them – do with them. Gleason shifted and her breathing deepened. He put his left hand on her knee and slowly slid upward, taking fabric with it. He heard her breath catch.

"How was your dinner? Is everything to your liking?" Guido asked Sledge and Eames.

"It was wonderful," Sledge told him.

"Will you have dessert this evening? We have a wonderful selection."

Sledge looked across the table, Alex shook her head and said, "I can't eat another thing. Dinner was superb."

"Wonderful, wonderful. Here, let me pour the rest of the wine. It is too good to leave behind."

Guido poured and excused himself.

The server approached and asked Bobby and Gleason if he might remove their plates. Their dinners had more than satisfied.

"Yes, thank you," Bobby said.

Guido arrived after the server left. "Was everything to your liking?"

"Guido, it was over the top. Thank you for making this happen."

"My pleasure my friend. Now, what can I get you?" he clapped his hands together and rubbed them.

"Uh, may I have a cup of tea, chamomile if you have it? Gleason asked.

Guido nodded with a smile and turned to Bobby.

"I'll have black coffee, thanks."

"Coming right up."

The server returned, removed their water glasses, bread plates, cutlery, the butter and everything else but the candle. He whisked the white tablecloth and left.

Bobby reached for her hand. She wished he had reached for her leg again. She watched his thumb stroke the top of her hand. That thumb . . . across her nipple, she felt herself thicken.

"Bobby, can we go home?"

"What's wrong?" he looked alarmed.

"Nothing, nothing . . . I just . . . want to make love to you."


	27. Chapter 27

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Chapter 27

Bobby caught a server, not theirs, and asked him to cancel their drinks and bring the bill. He moved his hand to her leg, under the fabric, and slid up her inner thigh. Gleason gasped and placed both hands flat on the white tablecloth. He watched her. His hand continued its journey upward. Of their own accord, Gleason's legs opened. She breathed through open lips. Bobby's fingers reached and touched her there, her place. She was damp. She gasped aloud and closed her eyes, her right hand clutched at the tablecloth. Still, Bobby stared at her, watching her enjoy him touching her. His finger slid under the elastic. He felt her heat, her moisture.

"Bobby stop," – a gasp as he reached further.

"Your bill, sir."

Bobby's head swung and his hand froze. Gleason's eyes shot open and she went deer in the headlights.

The young man realized what they were doing, reddened, looked at the floor, took a step back and said, "I can take that whenever you are ready. Take your time," and walked away.

Gleason looked at Bobby, who looked stunned, and said, "Oh, my God!"

"Let's get out of here."

Bobby pulled a number of bills from his money clip, removed the call tag for the car, and slipped the cash into the bill folder. Gleason fixed the skirt of her dress and they both stood. He moved behind her, picked up her scarf and arranged it across her shoulders. He dipped his head and placed his open mouth where her neck met her shoulders. His tongue licked, and he sucked.

"Stop," Gleason whispered.

With his hand in the small of her back, Bobby guided her to the front. She was still breathing fast. He was staying behind her until he could walk without embarrassing himself. They passed the young server who grinned and cocked a finger at Bobby. Bobby felt himself redden.

Guido saw them approaching, "What? You're leaving? What about your drinks? Something not right?" He sounded genuinely concerned.

"No, no, Guido, not at all. Dinner was wonderful, everything was wonderful. Thank you. No, we need to get going, that's all." Bobby explained. Gleason was still flushed, her heart pounded.

"All right, then. And you, Bobby's Bella, how was it for you?"

"Everything exceeded my expectations," Gleason replied.

"Thanks again, Guido. You made this evening memorable," Bobby shook his friend's hand.

"No, Bobby, I think it was you, under the table, that made it memorable," Guido said, with a wink and a squeeze of his hand.

Bobby ducked his head, mumbled something and nearly pushed Gleason out the door.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sledge slipped Eames' short jacket over her shoulders and they headed for the door.

"Guido, thank you so much. As usual, dinner was outstanding," Sledge said sincerely.

"Eddie, it was my pleasure," Guido was the only person Eames had ever heard call Edward 'Eddie'.

They stepped through the doors into the night.

Bobby gave the call tag to the attendant who whistled for a runner. He stood behind Gleason sliding his hands up and down her arms. He continued on her neck where he had started inside. Gleason tilted her head toward his head and whispered, "Bobby, stop now."

"Huh uh, this is good," he murmured into her neck. His hands moved to her waist and he pulled her to him, he pushed into her, his hands slid to her flat stomach, he began to move against her.

"Oh my God," Eames whispered. Is that Bobby and Gleason? She looked up at Sledge; he hadn't seen them yet.


	28. Chapter 28

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Chapter 28.

Sledge spoke to the attendant who blew two short calls on his whistle. He still hadn't seen Bobby and Gleason. And, it certainly didn't look as if they were going to notice Sledge and her. Eames turned so his back would be toward the other couple. Sledge stood in front of her, smiled down and pulled her to him in a chaste hug. She rested her head against his chest, but her mind spun around Bobby and the professor.

He loves her, oh God, it's true, he loves her. She could see it in the way he touched Gleason, kissed her neck, moved against her. Eames didn't want to be jealous; she was here with Sledge. Edward cared for her. Her chest felt tight and it was hard to draw a breath. Get hold of yourself, she screamed in her mind. Be with Sledge, he likes you; he sees you as a woman, he wants you. Bobby never will, he can't. Eames squeezed back tears, buried a sob, and pulled away from Edward's chest. He looked down at her and Alex kissed him. Edward's hands flew to her face and he kissed her back.

Bobby's green SUV pulled up, the attendant opened Gleason's door, helped her up and shut the door. Bobby went around to the driver's side, tipped the runner, got in, the runner shut his door and they were off.

They drove in absolute silence, lost in their own thoughts. Gleason had not felt like this since she was with Gavin, years ago; Clive never entered her mind. Gleason glanced at Bobby, he drove with his right hand on the wheel, left elbow on the ledge below the window, chewing on his thumb. She was surprised at her lust. She turned toward her window and watched the city night fly by.

Bobby hadn't been with a woman in more than a year. He still regretted that last time. It was a first date thing; he left afterward, during the night, and he didn't see the woman again, didn't even call her. He was disgusted with himself, it was something his father or brother would do; he didn't want to be like them.

But this woman – God, this woman. He could see himself being with her forever. He knew she was the one. He knew it the moment she entered the conference room last Wednesday.

Their car pulled up, the attendant opened the back passenger door, and Sledge ushered in Eames. He slid in beside her, the door shut and he told the driver to drive around a while. The driver nodded and the partition slid up.

Sledge's hand went straight for Eames' breast as he leaned in to kiss her.

Bobby tossed the keys on the table by the door, and took Gleason by the arm, left hand on the back of her head. She met his open mouth with hers. Their tongues dueled. His hands held her head, moved to her neck, his mouth followed. Her hands moved to his buckle and tugged.

"Bed, let's go to bed," she whispered deeply.

He turned her and followed her to the bedroom. He stepped in behind her and shut the door. He had taken off his suit coat and unclipped his weapon coming down the hall. The coat landed on the chair in the corner, and he set his gun on the dresser. He pulled his sweater over his head and it joined the coat. He reached over and turned on the bedside lamp. She kicked off her shoes and looked at him. His eyes never left her face. A fine spray of dark hair shadowed his chest. He was broad and strong. His chest heaved as he undid his buckle, he pulled the belt free of the loops and it joined the coat and sweater. She saw his erection and stepped to him.

Eames slid her tongue between Edward's lips and his hand slid inside her bodice. A quiet moan escaped from her and she reached for his zipper. He shifted and Eames pulled it down. His hand moved to his belt and, with one hand, quickly opened his trousers fully. Edward took her hand and guided it inside. She grasped his hardness through his shorts.

He pulled her small, round breast from her dress and his mouth devoured it. Her nipple hardened into a tight, small, dark stone as he rubbed it with the surface of his rough tongue.

Again, Bobby took her head with his left hand. The fingers of his right hand stroked her face, neck, and then moved to her mouth. His fingertips gently touched her lips against his. Gleason broke from his lips and he moved his middle finger into her mouth. He gasped with a quiet moan as her tongue danced under it, over it. His mouth slid to her neck, he licked her wildly pumping pulse, feeling it throb against his tongue. He sucked it; his left hand moved to the fabric on her shoulder and slid it down.

Gleason undid the hook and then the button on his trousers. She slowly unzipped him. His legs moved apart and his breathing quickened. His mouth moved to her shoulder, licking, sucking. Her thumbs hooked his boxers and she pushed them down with his trousers. She moved her head and he slid his finger from her mouth. He took her head again, and saw raw passion in her eyes.

"Let me," she whispered. She kissed his neck, his chest, sucked on his nipple. His eyes closed and his head fell back. She continued down his chest to his smooth, hard stomach. She began to kneel; he stopped her by the arms. "No, let me," she said again. He searched her eyes, unsure. His hands moved back to her neck.

Eames found the elastic of his boxers and her tiny hand slipped under. She grasped his satin hardness and was surprised at how thick he felt; she couldn't close her hand around him. Her hand began to stroke his length. He was long.

Sledge jolted at her touch. Her small hand was soft, but strong. He knew his size, knew he might hurt her. He would go slowly.

Bobby could feel her breath on himself, there. She was looking at him, he knew. Her hands slid over his stomach, hips, down his thighs. So soft, her hands were silk against his skin. Her fingers traced lines through his hair. Her breath was hot, and fast. He jerked and groaned aloud when her warm, wet mouth slid over the tip and her tongue licked the end.

He is so big, thought Gleason. Long and thick. Red. Hard, so hard. She felt him jerk, heard his groan, and knew she could please him. She slowly ran her left thumb along the underside, tracing the length of the ridge. Slowly, slowly she took him into her mouth – a little at a time – a little in, then out, a little more in; in and out, until most of his length filled her mouth, until she could hold no more. She kept her tongue stiff against the ridge underneath.

Bobby felt it building fast; it had been so long. His mind ran wild. It was so good, so good. Her mouth, her tongue – so hot, wet. He wanted to pump her mouth. His hands tightened in her hair. Short guttural sounds escaped his throat. Agh, God, now – he was so close – now . . . ungh!

Sledge's hand slipped under Eames' dress, up her thigh, to the silk of her panties. She shifted and opened her legs. He rubbed her through the fabric. She pushed against his fingers, wanting him to touch her, enter her.

Eames pulled Edward free, out from his pants. She looked down at his long, hard, red member. She wanted to take it him her mouth. "Let me eat you," she said.

"Stop! Gleason stop!" He pulled away, out of her mouth, grabbed her right arm and pulled her up. She looked at him with a mix of confusion and concern. "Not yet, not like this." His hands went to the shoulders of her dress and pulled it down. Her breasts tumbled free. He cupped her left breast and bent to take it in his mouth. His tongue flicked the nipple, he sucked it, he nibbled it, pinching and pulling with his teeth. Gleason pushed the dress over her hips and took her panties down at the same time.

She lifted his head with both hands; he looked at her. She took his hand and they stepped out of the puddles of clothing at their feet. Bobby stripped back the coverlet and top sheet she and Estella had set earlier today. He showed her onto the bed and he followed, pulling up the top sheet.

Gleason lay on her back, Bobby up on his left elbow, above and next to her. She reached for his face and he kissed her deeply. He took her left breast and ran his thumb over the nipple. Gleason gasped, that little move was so good. He spread open her legs with his right knee and slid his hand down her flat, soft stomach. His long fingers reached into her nest, probing; he found his mark and barely touched her clit with his middle finger, his longest finger. He watched her. She jumped, closed her eyes, and moaned softly. She opened wider.


	29. Chapter 29

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Chapter 29

"No, not here. Later." Sledge wanted them to last all night, into the morning. He thought of how small she was, how small she would be there – tight, wet, good. He slipped a finger under the elastic at her crotch. She was soaking wet.

Eames groaned and moved against his finger. Her small hand gripped his staff and glided up and down its silken length. His breath came faster. He closed his eyes and felt himself creep toward the edge. He reached for the top of her panties and began to pull. Alex helped them down, shed her shoes and pulled off her panties. Sledge's hand clasped her place and two fingers entered. She lifted her hips to bring him in further.

Bobby's finger stirred in her wet, traced the line of her slit. She was swollen, tight, hot. He traced her slit up and down, and then slowly, slowly pushed open the lips with his fingertip. So slowly, he slid in his finger. He watched her inhale through clenched teeth. She lifted her hips to follow his movement. Just as slowly, he withdrew his finger.

"Good?" he asked quietly. She opened her eyes and watched as he licked the finger that he had just pulled from her body. He ran that finger over her lips, seeking a way in. She opened her mouth slightly and in he slipped. She tasted her own saltiness. He kissed her and his hand moved down her body again.

She reached for him, his hard length. "No, no." He caught her wrist and moved her hand above her head. "Let me." Gleason slid her hand under the pillow and his hand again traveled her body, seeking her warm wetness. Ah, there, there. He traced her slit again and slowly slid in two fingers. Again, she hissed an inhale and lifted her hips. He slid his fingers out, as slowly as before. And then in. And then out. And in. Out. Faster, deeper.

"Come here, sit on me," Sledge whispered hoarsely. He lifted her by the waist, like a doll, and her leg crossed his lap. Eames was on her knees straddling his legs; he kissed her like never before. He took himself by his own hand and guided himself to her opening. Eames felt his large, round tip against her slit. He didn't lower her onto it. He moved himself along her slit, spreading her juice. He rubbed himself against her clit and Eames growled softly.

She panted and clutched his lapels. "Do it. In me. Go in."

Sledge held her up with an arm around her tiny waist, rubbing his penis against her slot, teasing her, teasing himself. He was so close. He watched her face, their eyes locked. "Do it. Please. Edward. Do it," she begged.

Bobby's thumb rubbed her clit as his fingers filled and emptied her. Her gasps came quicker, shorter. Her hips rose and met his every entry. Short sounds came from her throat. "Unh . . . . . unh . . . . ungh . . . UNGH! Her hand flew from under the pillow to his wrist, grabbed it and held it still. She ground against his hand, a growl issued from her throat and she jerked as if electrified.

Bobby watched her. Unknowingly, his hips moved in tune with his hand. He watched it build in her. Saw the edge approach. He felt himself grow as never before. He was so close, so close. God he wanted to come, come with her. We will; this is for her.

She rode his hand and slowly she settled. His fingers remained inside. He moved them slightly and she jerked. Her grasp on his wrist relaxed and he slid his fingers out. She moaned as he pulled. She was breathing hard. A sheen of perspiration covered her.

"Bobby. . ."

"Huh uh, this is good." He laid his open mouth on her breast, and sucked. He sucked his way down her body, creeping down in the bed as he went. He got to where he was going and pushed her legs open wide.

Sledge lowered her slowly; slowly, slowly his cock pushed apart her engorged lips. Eames gasped and her head snapped back. Edward felt himself push her open as he eased her down his length. Oh, God . . . oh God – hot, tight, so tight, wet; oh God! Edward pushed up, Eames ground down. She felt him fill her, all the way; all the way to that spot, that spot! Eames pulled her self up and down, up and down; each time, Edward hit that spot. They came together in a rush of grunts and moans.

Bobby spread open her other lips and licked her juice, he sucked and then swallowed. She was salty sweet. His tongue danced like his hands when he talked. He licked her clit, caught it between his teeth and teased; Gleason moaned and moved on the bed. His tongue slid in and out of her slit. His thumbs released her lips and he sucked them both, pulling, nibbling. Deep, throaty sounds came from her mouth. Both hands seized the sheets and she pulled them toward her.

Watching her writhe in pleasure, knowing he was responsible, fueling her approaching orgasm, stirred him more. He imagined being inside of her – she was so wet, so slippery; she was swollen, she'd be tight; and hot, he felt her heat on his tongue. He was close, so close. God . . . now, now . . .

Eames continued to come after Edward had finished. She flexed her inner muscles and squeezed him. He watched her come, then watched her settle. She fell against him, panting. He held her and together their breathing slowed.

"Alex."

She sat back and they looked at each other. He kissed her warmly, gently. She returned his kiss. He lifted her from his lap as if she weighed nothing. Eames swept the skirt of her dress under her as she took her place and adjusted the top of her dress. Edward put himself back together, zipped and bucked his trousers.

"You ok?" he asked her. She nodded and ran her hands through her hair. Edward leaned forward and rapped on the partition. He bent and picked up her panties from the floor and slid them into his pocket. Edward reached for Alex and pulled her close. She snuggled into his arm and the driver headed for home.

Bobby drove his tongue into her once more and then rose up on his knees. He snatched the edge of the sheet and wiped his mouth, jaw and chin.

"Come here," he said to Gleason still writhing below him. He took an arm and pulled her up. Bobby sat back on his calves, the bottom of his feet under his butt. His penis curved upward, thick, dark, hard; a drop of pre-ejaculate fluid seeped down the side. Gleason sat up, on her knees, panting. He took her head in both hands and kissed her deeply.

His hands moved to her bottom and he said hoarsely, "Get on me. Let me in. Get on."

She spread her legs, moved onto his legs, he lifted her and guided himself into her. They moaned together as he filled her, as her tight wet heat surrounded him. With his hands on her bottom, Gleason eased herself down his length, gasping short breaths. Bobby growled. She wrapped her arms around his neck, lifted herself, pulled back and slid down, pulled back and slid down. She felt him rub that spot inside, that magic button that sent flares of want up into her; he pumped up into her, hitting it again and again. Bobby flew to the edge, she was tight, and wet around him; he felt her muscles squeeze him, massage him as he slid in and out . . . oh, God! . . . close, close . . .

"UNNNNGHHH!" he exploded into her with a feral cry, his whole body tensed, his head snapped back, and he clutched her close.

Gleason felt her orgasm approach with each thrust. That spot, that spot. Bobby's guttural come pushed her over and the world went white. They rode each other, forever it seemed.

At some point, they slowed, panting, holding onto each other. They were soaked in sweat. She felt him begin to soften in her. She slowly backed off him. He shuddered with a slight moan as he pulled out. Finally, he took her face, searched her eyes, and kissed her so gently.


	30. Chapter 30

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Chapter 30

They lay on damp sheets, clammy bodies entwined. Bobby felt a shiver run through Gleason. "Here, cover up," he said softly as he reached for the coverlet and pulled it over them. He slid his hand over her forehead and along the side of her face, pushing her hair off her face. "You ok?"

Gleason nodded and said, almost child-like, "Can I have a drink? I'm thirsty."

"Of course. What do you want? A glass of wine, water?"

"Just water."

"I'll be right back." He leaned over and softly kissed her forehead. He rolled off the bed, picked up the pile of clothes on the floor and tossed them onto the chair with the others, reached for the door and stepped into the hall, naked.

Gleason lay there, staring at the ceiling. Her mind was blank as blank as the ceiling. It was so good not to think. She heard the toilet flush and then water running. He's cleaning up, I should, too. She was so wet down there. Then it occurred to her, we didn't use a condom. He's ok; he's the first one without one. From her first time, every time, till tonight, she'd used a condom. She sat up and pulled the coverlet to her chin, over her shoulders, still shivering.

Bobby returned carrying two bottles of water, a towel around his waist. "You still cold?" he asked as he handed her an opened bottle. She nodded, took the bottle and drank heartily. He set his bottle on the bedside table and went to his dresser, pulled open a drawer and dug through it. "Here, put this on," he said as he turned, offering an enormous sweatshirt. She traded him the water bottle for the shirt, opened it and pulled it on, pushing the bottom edge down and the sleeves up. "Better?" he asked, setting her bottle on the table beside his. She nodded and began pulling hairpins from the wreck that surrounded her head.

He sat, right leg bent on the bed, left leg off. He watched her do this simple act of grooming, such a womanly thing. She bent her head and sought pins, pulling and holding them. When she found them all, she carefully laid the bunch on the coverlet, and raked her fingers through the red mass. He was amazed at how much hair she had. It was long, nearly to her waist, it hung over her breasts. It was crazy curly.

Bobby had never touched a woman's hair before, not like this. He reached for it, wanting to feel it. She saw him watching her, reaching for her hair. He slipped his hand under the red cascade and ran his hand down its length. It was so soft, unlike anything he'd ever touched. She watched his face; he was fascinated, like a boy touching something wonderful.

Gleason suddenly felt such a swelling in her chest; it burned, it filled her, and it took her breath away. I love this man. She'd never, ever said such a thing to anyone, no one, not even to herself. She had never said that word aloud, never even thought it. This is what love is. This is what it feels like. The swelling in her chest grew, her eyes filled. Bobby's eyes moved from her hair to her face, he saw the tears and immediately took her by the arms.

"What's wrong? What's wrong?" he was frightened.

She moved to him and clutched her arms around him. He held her. "Nothing. Nothing is wrong. It's all good." She hitched a sob.

The car stopped and the driver opened the back door. Sledge stepped out and Eames followed, taking his hand.

"Good night sir, ma'am."

"Thank you," Edward told the man.

The driver nodded to each, returned to the car and drove off.

"Give me your keys," Edward said. Alex got them and handed them over.

Together, without a word, they entered her apartment and Edward shut and locked her door.

Bobby held her, rocked her, was lost in her hair, "Are sure you're all right? I didn't hurt you, did I?" He breathed in her fragrance – God, that scent!

Gleason hitched another sob, and pulled away. He released her, held her arms, and searched her face. "Why are you crying? Tell me," he said softly.

She searched his face as well. Tell him, tell him what you feel. Say it. Just say it. "I . . . I . . . I . . . am just happy. I'm happy, Bobby. You are good, a good man. I. . ." she couldn't say it. Still couldn't say it. "I have to go to the bathroom."

Bobby looked at her. She's not telling me something. She's hiding something. He let go of her arms, pulled her head to him and kissed her softly. Gleason scuttled off her side of the bed, walked around the foot, pulling his sweatshirt down around her bottom and walked into the hall. Bobby sat for a minute, thinking, wondering; he picked up the hairpins that had scattered when they embraced, still wondering. Then he got up, laid the collection of pins on the dresser and stripped the coverlet and sheets from the bed. He threw them onto the mound on the chair and went to the closet for a clean set.

Gleason finished, wiped herself, flushed and looked around for a washcloth. She found a stack in a narrow linen closet, took one. She turned on the faucet and let the water run to warm. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a train wreck; she looked like a Scottish banshee. Gleason combed her hair with both hands and pulled it back into a knot, twisting it into itself. She ran the washcloth under the stream of warm water, rung it out and cleaned herself. She repeated the task, rinsed the washcloth well, wringing it nearly dry and turned off the water. She folded the cloth and hung it on the towel bar.

Bobby was smoothing the coverlet over a clean top sheet when she returned to the bedroom. He stood, turned to her and said, "The other sheets were wet. I changed them." She smiled. He reached for her and guided her into the bed. He undid the towel around his waist, tossed it onto the heap on the chair and climbed in beside her.

They wound themselves into their position. "What time is it?" Gleason asked. Bobby turned away, glanced over his shoulder, turned back and said, "Ten after two."

"We should go to sleep," she said with a yawn.

Bobby nuzzled the back of her neck and murmured, "I love you."

He felt her tense up. What? What did I just say! Jesus Christ! Where did that come from? It just came out. I said it without thinking. His mind raced and then . . . because it's true, I do. I do love her. I do. I've known it since that first day. I do love her. He felt a golden glow inside, a warm golden glow. I do love her.

Gleason's eyes flew open and she tensed up. What did he say? No, no, no, no. He didn't. No, I misunderstood. He mumbled something, but not that. No, no, he did not say that. No . . . no.

Neither said anything. He felt Gleason slowly relax. He snuggled closer, breathed in cinnamon, and they slept.


	31. Chapter 31

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Chapter 31

Bobby woke with a start. He lay on his back, right arm crooked over his head, left hand on his chest. He glanced at the clock, six twenty-three. Gleason made a warm bundle beside him. She lay curled up, away from him, the top edge of the coverlet clutched beneath her chin. Her breath came slowly, deeply. This feels good, feels so right. He didn't want to wake her. He slipped off the bed, went to his dresser, opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of green plaid light cotton pants with an elastic waist. He stepped into them and left.

He stopped in the bathroom. He looked at himself in the mirror. His hair stood up in short, curved spikes – he didn't want to admit curls – and he had the beginnings of a real beard. I really need a shower. He reached behind the curtain and turned on the water. He had a thought and returned to the bedroom.

Bobby dug through the pile of clothes and sheets on the chair, found the bottom and pulled out his suit coat. Holding it up, he reached into the breast pocket and removed the small, flat box from Tim's gallery. He tossed the coat back on the pile, looked at Gleason still sleeping and returned to the bathroom.

He set the box on the shelf above the sink, shed his pants and stepped into the water.

"Over here," Gavin shouted. "Look at this. I think I've found it."

Gleason jogged to where he stood and looked toward where his finger pointed. "What?" she asked.

"Over there. See it? It's right there," he shook his finger, pointing. "There."

"Gavin, I don't know what you are pointing at."

"Come on, let's get closer." She felt him take her hand and off they ran, Gavin leading her.

"It's right there. Look. Gleason, you're looking right at it. Don't you see it?"

Gleason stared, searched, swept her eyes everywhere. She saw woods, the deep green masses of leaves waving in the slight breeze. A pasture spread wide to the right, bound by a rail fence along the dirt road and a short, stone wall on the far, far end. Rows of tall corn rustled to the left. She watched the moving shadows the clouds cast on the pasture as they passed above.

Gavin watched her search. "You don't see it, do you?"

She shook her head no, "Show me. Show me where it is. Take me there."

Gavin let go of her hand and took a step back, "I've tried to take you there, so many times; tried to show you so many times. It's always been right in front of you, but you can't see it. You won't let yourself see it. You probably never will."

Bobby finished in the bathroom, stepped back into his pants and returned to the bedroom for a shirt. He opened the door and heard Gleason whimpering. He stepped to the bed, concerned. The whimpering stopped and she took a big sigh, nuzzled the pillow, wiped hair from her face and settled. Bobby watched her, his heart full. He loved this woman.

Sledge crawled off and dropped beside her. They lay in her bed, panting.

"Jesus, woman, you're going to wring me dry," he panted.

Eames rubbed her forearm over her forehead, pushing hair out of her eyes. She didn't respond. What the hell am I doing, she thought. This isn't like me. I've never done this ever. She thought about all the sex they'd had, the few hours of sleep. The sex was good, however. Edward made her come every time. He was good. And stamina! She wondered if he had taken one of those little blue pills before their date.

She turned on her side to face him, "Edward, you should go."

He turned his head and looked at her. He thought of all they had done in this bed last night. She is gorgeous. Her tight, small body had kept him going all night long. But, he honestly didn't think he could go again. I need to leave, he thought. Maybe we'll go for dinner tonight. Maybe a movie.

"You're right, I should go." He rolled off the bed with a grunt and began to dress. She watched him.

"Want to go for dinner and a movie later?" he asked as he folded his tie and slipped it into his pocket. He felt her panties inside and pulled them out. "I think these are yours, Madam."

She smiled and reached up, grabbed them from his hand and said, "Call me later. We'll see."

He bent and kissed her lightly on the forehead. "Lock the door after I leave."

Bobby took a dark green tee shirt from the same drawer he took the sweatshirt. He pulled it on and left the bedroom one more time. He retrieved the box from the shelf over the bathroom sink and went to the kitchen.

No tea kettle, no tea, no teapot, and certainly no tea cozy. But . . . I do have hot chocolate! He considered filling the coffee pot carafe with water and running the cycle without coffee in the basket to get a pot of boiling water. Then he thought better of that idea, he didn't want some form of insipid hot mocha dishwater. He took a small pot and lid, filled the pot, and set it with its lid on the stove to boil. He made a stack of toast with the last of the bread, found a can of mandarin orange slices he didn't know he had, checked the expiration date, and split it between two small bowls. What else? he thought. He didn't want to make eggs again today. This will be enough, we can go for a big lunch later.

Bobby set the table, put the small flat box on her plate and looked at the clock on the microwave – nearly eight. He walked back to the bedroom and walked around to her side. He knelt beside the bed, watching her sleep.

She is beautiful; her eyelashes were slight golden arcs lining the edges of her lids. Her brows were nearly invisible, clear gold against her pale skin. The knot of hair at the back of her head had come loose. Sections of hair curved between her neck and shoulder, it spread behind her on the pillow. His heart pounded, I love this woman.

He gently, so gently, smoothed away a drift of hair from the side of her face. She stirred, sighed and opened her eyes, looking directly at him. "Morning glory," he said softly. She smiled and stretched. "Did you sleep well?"

"I had a new dream, about Gavin; I couldn't see something he wanted me to see."

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, "Who is Gavin?"

"An old boyfriend. How come you smell so good?" she asked. "We were all sweaty and smelly when I last remember."

"I took a shower."

"But you didn't shave," she said with a smile and moved her hand along his jaw.

"I didn't know whether you wanted me to."

"It's nice and sexy for the weekend."

"It will be a bitch to shave tomorrow morning," he answered.

"Yes, but you love m-," she stopped. Bobby looked at her looking at him. Neither said anything.

"Come on, you need to get a shower," he said, standing up. He reached for her hand and pulled; she stood up and walked around the bed to the bathroom.


	32. Chapter 32

Rune Alignment

Chapter 32

Bobby put on a pair of shoes, got his keys and ran down to the car to get her bag. He picked up the Sunday paper from his box and returned to his apartment. He turned up the heat under the pot of water and covered the plate of toast with a damp paper towel, setting it in the warm oven. He ripped open two envelopes of hot chocolate and poured one in each mug. He remembered the honey and placed it on the table with a bit of orange marmalade left in a jar. Then he sat in the living room chair and opened the paper.

Bobby turned from the paper when Gleason came down the hall, wrapped in a towel, her wet hair hanging around her. "We forgot to bring in-," she started. Bobby reached down and held up the carpetbag.

"I didn't forget," he told her. She walked to him and he dropped bag and set the newspaper beside the chair. She turned and sat on his lap, hands resting on his knees, legs open around them, toes just touching the floor.

Long ropes of wet red hair hung down her back. Bobby gathered them with both hands and ran down its length. Her hair was heavy and wet. He placed the damp drape of hair over her right shoulder.

The top point of the design on her back showed above her towel. He put his hands on either side of her neck and kneaded, massaging her neck and shoulders with his thumbs. He stared at the scars. How this must have hurt, he thought.

"Oh, Bobby, that feels so good," she moaned. She shifted on his lap and he felt a twinge. He continued to work her shoulders and neck. "It's so good, so good," she said deeply. She shifted again, front to back this time, and he felt himself jerk alive. "Ugh, so good," she shifted in a circle and he filled more.

"Sit still," he whispered. She rubbed her bottom up and down his lap. "Gleason, stop it." His whisper was husky; he was nearly erect.

She stopped, turned around and said, "Huh uh, this is good," smiling widely at him. In one move, he ripped off her towel, tossed it on the floor, grabbed her and laid her down on it. She gave a delighted squeal and he was on her in a flash, one knee on either side of her hips. He pinned her arms above her head and spread her legs with one of his. He looked down at her smiling, glowing face. "You devil," he said laughing. "You horny devil woman. Where did you learn that trick?"

She laughed and looked up at him, "Watching porn."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They made love right there on the living room floor; old fashioned lovemaking, with him on top. Bobby rolled to her side, took her hand and kissed her palm. He pulled up his pants and stood; he took her hand and pulled her to her feet. "Go get some clothes on, breakfast is ready." Gleason bent to pick up the towel, and he smacked her bottom. He handed her the carpetbag.

Bobby walked into the kitchen and heard the pot on the stove snapping. It had boiled dry. "Oh, jeeze! Shit!" he exclaimed. He grabbed a dishtowel, lifted the pot, set it in the sink, knocking off the lid, and turned on the water. A plume of steam whooshed up and he stepped back, watching, listening to the pot go nuts popping and crackling in the sink. Bobby waved the dishtowel into the steam.

He pulled open the oven door and a cloud of smoke puffed into the room. Bobby waved the dishtowel again, faster, and saw a flame consuming the paper towel. "Oh man! Oh, jeeze!" he shouted and whacked the flaming paper with the dishtowel, knocking slices of toast everywhere. When the fire was out, Bobby used the dishtowel to remove the scorched plate; he threw it into the sink as well, under the running water where it promptly snapped into pieces.

Gleason stood and watched Bobby in front of the sink, feebly waving a dishtowel amid smoke and steam. "I've heard of hot stuff in the kitchen, but you take the cake, big boy."

Bobby turned and looked at her sheepishly, "I, I forgot about the pot . . . and the paper towel." His hands were indicating and chopping like crazy. "The pot, it boiled dry and the towel . . . the paper towel caught on fire in the oven. I threw the pot into the sink and then the plate with the toast in the sink to put out the fire and the water ruined the toast. I should have nuked the water instead of trying to boil it."

She just smiled and shook her head, "My boy." She went to the fridge, pulled it open and saw the two bowls of mandarin oranges. "Ah, all is not lost." She took the bowls to the table and saw the box on her plate. She looked at Bobby. He smiled. She set the bowls on the table, and sat down, hands in her lap.

"Open it," he told her as he sat across from her.

"What is it?"

"A surprise."

"Tell me."

"Then it won't be a surprise."

They smiled across the table. Gleason touched the box with two fingers. Bobby watched her. Slowly she lifted the lid. Inside rested a chain of hammered gold links and onyx stones. Sets of seven links alternated with an onyx stone. She looked at it, then at him. He smiled and nodded. She lifted the chain. It was exquisite. "Bobby . . . I, I . . . I've never had. . ." He came around the table and took the chain, laid it around her neck and hooked the clasp. Gleason reached for it, ran her fingers along it and stood. She turned and he held her, just held her.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Bobby and Gleason spent the day making love, reading the paper, napping. They did go to her place for extra clothes, her cell phone, and a bar of her soap. They also brought back her kettle, teapot, box of tea and the cozy. She ran back in for her green chenille throw. They stopped and bought a few groceries, including a loaf of bread.

That afternoon, they argued mildly about her staying home, at his place, for a few days. She knew she wasn't going to win so she called her graduate assistant and asked if he could cover for a few days. Brandon was pleased to oblige. Then she called the dean and explained the situation. Bobby talked with her as well. The dean was most accommodating.

It all felt so right.


	33. Chapter 33

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"Swear to me you will stay here. Swear," Bobby looked directly into Gleason's eyes.

"Bobby, go to work. You'll be late."

"Swear."

"All right, all right, I swear. Now go. I'll see you this evening."

He put his left hand behind her neck and kissed her warmly, "I'll call you on the new phone. Answer it, ok?"

"Go."

Gleason closed the door to Bobby's apartment. This is nice, she thought.

"Listen to this," Bobby said as he retuned from the audio lab with a copy of the voiceprints and narrative Martin had prepared on Saturday. Deakins and Sledge were talking at Eames' desk as he approached; they stopped talking and looked at him.

Bishop was at her desk, making calls to the INS and Interpol, writing like mad. "Yeah, thanks. Bye." She hung up and walked over to the others.

"Martin noticed an odd distance between the spikes in the voiceprint. At least odd when compared to a print of an American speaking English," Bobby shared.

"But there are many American English languages, aren't there? Like Appalachian English, Texas English?" asked Deakins.

"I asked him the same thing," Bobby responded, right hand illustrating, left hand holding the narrative and print strips. "Martin said, yes there are; but, he said, oral language has vague continental similarities. Meaning, that the nuances within a language have inherent likenesses indigenous to the continent where it is spoken." He looked at them expectantly and saw blank stares.

He swallowed, took a breath, set down the papers, and said, with both hands at the ready, "All right, when someone born in the UK tries to speak English with an American accent, say a New York, or Brooklyn accent, intrinsic parallels remain from his native English, as imperceptible as they may be." Still blank looks. Bobby let his hands and shoulders fall. "He may sound like he's from here, but a voiceprint will show that the accent is fake."

"Ah," said Deakins, nodding.

"Gottcha," said Eames.

"I see," said Bishop.

"Why the hell didn't you just say that in the first place?" scowled Sledge.

Bobby continued, "I have to say, this makes perfect sense. When Gleason and I ran into Elliott at the market on Saturday . . ."

The other four stared at him with raised eyebrows and questioning looks. He waved his hand, as if shooing away their wondering, closed his eyes, shook his head and then continued, ". . . I thought he sounded forced, as if he was trying too hard to sound American.

"Don't you see?" Bobby asked. "This means that the caller has an accent, not an American accent. He's from Europe or, somewhere else, and he's faking an American accent. This narrows the investigation significantly. The caller is Elliott. Elliott is Welsh and he's faking being American."

"That's quite a theory," Deakins said. "We're going to need more than that, though, to prove anything. See what else you can find out about this guy." Deakins walked away.

An assistant handed Bishop a sheaf of papers. "These just came out of the fax machine for you."

"Thanks," Bishop replied, taking the papers and scanning them.

"Well, guess what?" she said to the others, "Elliott T. Baughman has an F-1 visa, meaning he needs to remain a fulltime student to keep his visa valid. The information from his 1-20 university visa application never transferred to the university. It must have been lost."

"Or intercepted," Sledge suggested.

"That's why the university has no home address in New York. The 1-20 gives his address in Wales as Llandewi Brefi in Ceredigion. At least that's how I think you pronounce it."

"He's faking that accent. It's him, he's the caller," Bobby said. "What do they have on him in Wales?"

"Well, he's been a busy bad boy," Bishop said reading, "I called Interpol and the folks at I-24/7 in NCB faxed over what they had. He is in their system, all right, has been from a young age. His juvenile lists cruelty to animals, arson, exposure, and molesting two neighborhood girls. His adult priors include assault, arson, stalking, and public lewdness.' Sounds like this guy has issues."

Bobby stood and took the faxes from Bishop. "It's him. It's Elliott. Elliott's been making the phone calls, threatening Gleason." He looked at his colleagues, "It all fits, the accent, the stalking, the exposures, public lewdness . . . his previous behaviors in Wales foreshadowed what he's been doing here – the stalking, the content of the calls, all of them describing deviant sexual and cruel acts. Let's go pick him up." He turned to go when Sledge interrupted.

"Wait, wait, wait a minute." Sledge had been standing quietly, waiting to explain his map to the others. Bishop and Eames looked from Sledge to Bobby, expecting some kind of altercation.

Bobby stopped, closed his eyes, shook his head and said darkly, "What?"

"How do we know Elliott has been making the calls? What hard evidence do you have? Nothing, you have nothing to pick him up with, it's all circumstantial at best," he offered. "Let's get a voice print on this Elliott and compare it to the prints from the calls; that's hard evidence. Let's wait for Huang's input. Let's see how this guy's priors fit in with Huang's profile. Christ, Goren, we have nothing to hold him with."

Bobby exploded, "What, you're channeling Carver now? We're going to go to the university and pick up this bastard for questioning, understand? Then we're going to bring him back here and question him. We have enough to tag him as a designated 'person of interest.'" Bobby glared at the other man, and then said to Alex, "Eames, are you coming with me?"

She looked from Bobby to Edward. I need to go with my partner, she told herself. Get up; go with Bobby. Get up.

Bobby threw up both hands and said, "Ok, forget it, I'll go myself with some uniforms." He flipped shut his portfolio, picked it up, turned and snatched his overcoat from the coat tree. He headed for the elevators.

"Bobby! Bobby, wait up," Eames grabbed her coat and hurried after him. She caught him waiting for the elevator. "Bobby. . ."

He spun, left hand chopping, and said, "Eames, don't . . . just, just – don't! Don't think you have to choose between Sledge and me. We're partners, you and I, but if you want to change that, it's fine with me." The elevator doors opened he stepped in.

Eames followed him and said nothing. She couldn't believe what he'd just said. Her eyes welled. She was crushed. Then pissed. Finally, the doors opened onto the lobby, Bobby stepped out and started to walk away. She grabbed his sleeve and hauled him to a stop. "You listen to me," she hissed, "I don't know what's wrong between you and Edward, but whatever it is, it better never come between you and me. Do you understand me?"

Bobby looked miserable and nodded.

"Good. Now, we are not going to the university to pick up Elliott Baughman." Bobby started to protest. "No, Bobby, Edward is right. We have no cause. Besides, we didn't clear anything with Deakins. You are acting with your heart, not your mind. If we do anything now, it will spoil any chance later with the Grand Jury." She stared up at her partner. He made intermittent eye contact. She could see him cooling off. "Bobby, you know I'm right. Come on. Let's go back upstairs and formulate a real plan." She tugged on his sleeve. The elevator doors opened and they went back to work.


	34. Chapter 34

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"Are you telling me these are recordings of a man jerking off?" Louise Kilgore was the head transcriptionist at One Police Plaza, one of the best in the five boroughs. She looked like an apple-pie-baking grandma – short, plump, the color of toast done just right, with a silver bun; she was well into her sixties.

"Uh, yes, actually," said Bobby fighting a laugh. "I've listened to the calls, Louise, and they are pretty rough. They are disgusting. Louise, it is perfectly all right if you don't want to listen to these. It's not a problem."

Louise looked up at the tall detective, he's a good-looking man, she thought. "Are you kidding? Give me that disc. This has to be better than porn." She snatched the disc and walked away. "Give me a couple hours," she yelled over her shoulder. Bobby laughed out loud.

"I'd like to get started on this right away. I don't want to wait for the transcriptions." Huang said into the phone. "How soon can I get a copy of the disc?"

"We've got one with your name on it," Sledge told him. "Do you want to come get it or should we send it over?"

"I'll come there. I want to talk with Detective Goren. Will he be around?"

Sledge answered with, "I'll make sure he knows you're on your way." Sledge hung up and walked over to Bobby's desk. He stood there while Bobby continued writing, ignoring him. Sledge felt his anger rising. You son-of-a-bitch, he thought. "Huang is on his way over to pick up his copy of the calls. He wants to see you when he gets here."

Bobby continued writing, and then said, without looking up, "Yeah."

Bishop met Eames at the coffee pot, "Edward wants to go over his work from Saturday. Think you and Goren can meet us in the conference room in ten?"

"Sure. Edward did a good job correlating the time and distances. He was fast, too. I had no idea he could work like that. He's usually joking around and looking for ways to piss off Bobby."

"So, how was your date?" Bishop asked as they left the coffee room.

"What? How did you . . .?" Eames sputtered.

"Oh, come on Alex. It is so obvious, from both of you. Listen to yourself – 'good job, so fast." You keep looking at each other, finding reasons to have private chats, standing close. You two act like you're in junior high."

Eames thought a moment. "You can tell, huh?"

"As if you wore a sign."

"Bobby, come on, we're going to meet Bishop and Sledge in the conference room. He wants to explain the mapping he did."

Bobby didn't react or answer, but he closed his portfolio and stood up, taking his folder with him.

"And, Bobby, be nice."

He closed his eyes and shook his head, "No promises."

Deakins saw the four heading to the conference room and joined them.

"This is what I've gotten so far from the calls on the professor's cell." Sledge pointed to four columns of number combinations written on a sheet of chart paper on the wall. "The caller made sixteen calls between eight fifty and eleven nineteen Thursday night. That's two hours and forty-nine minutes. These last ten, the ones bracketed here, are the ones that we have messages for. The first six, these, were bumped because her phone only holds ten messages."

"This column indicates the time of each call. This column is the length of each call; each one is seventy-two to ninety seconds long; ninety seconds is the time allotted for each message. This column is the phone number where each call originated. The calls came from four pay phones. This column indicates the distance between each phone. The phones lie within a twenty- to twenty-five block area.

"As you see, the times of the calls appear random – some calls coming right after each other, some with nearly twenty minutes between. When you correlate the locations, distances and times, this is what you get. . ." Sledge moved to the street map and pointed to the four pins with lines running between them.

"Explain what those pins and numbered arrows with numbers mean," Deakins asked.

"The caller was driving between pay phones, making the calls during those two and a half plus hours. He made two to six calls in a row from some phones. I'm thinking he needed to finish doing himself and ninety seconds wasn't enough time, so he kept calling back, sharing his handiwork out loud until he ejaculated and then moved on to the next phone. The arrows indicate which pay phone he went to next after each call. The number next to the arrow indicates the sequence. I checked with the phone company and sure enough, each of these pay phones is a car side phone. He was sitting in his car painting the flag pole."

Eames and Bishop shook their heads at the last comment.

"Good work. That was a lot of data to organize. Keep that chart and map in case we need it for trial if this goes that far," Deakins offered.

"Uh, one suggestion, though," Bobby said, "The column of phone numbers and the column of length of calls should be transposed. It is more a more logical, progressive delivery of information to know the time and place rather than the time and duration." His hands had indicated the switch he offered and he ended looking directly at Sledge.

Sledge looked back at him and thought, You asshole.

Deakins just shook his head.

Bobby had been sitting, stretched out in the chair at the end of the table, right elbow resting on the table, holding up his head with his thumb under his chin. The first call came in right after we got to the coffee shop, he thought, that was the one that Gleason answered and then turned off her phone. He made the last call right before we left. Could he have followed us?

"Where are we on the messages on her home phone?" Eames asked.

"I called Carver's office and a warrant will be ready this afternoon. I thought I would pick it up and run it over to the phone company. We'll probably have the messages tomorrow some time," Sledge reported.

"What about the redirect line? Any messages come in over the weekend?" asked Bishop.

Bobby sat up and said, "Uh, yeah; or, no actually. Jerry said twenty-four calls were made, but no messages were left."

"I wonder why," said Eames.

"Jerry said that with the redirect technology they use in his lab, which is apparently two generations old, a caller will hear a faint click on some land lines. He thinks that's what happened and it spooked the caller. The caller couldn't help himself, though, couldn't not call, and continued trying, despite the click. Nevertheless, he was savvy enough not to leave a message. Jerry was gathering the phone numbers from those calls; he'll send them up when he's done. I suspect they will be from the same pay phones, perhaps additional ones."

"Well, it's a good thing the professor's land line got plugged back in," Sledge said, looking directly at Bobby. "She had unplugged it in her fear," he said, speaking to Deakins. "I wonder how she knew it had to be plugged in?" The smirk in his voice was obvious.

Everyone looked at Bobby, waiting to see what he would do.

"It got taken care of. Ok?" he answered, picking up his portfolio and heading for his desk.

Everyone had returned to their tasks when Deakins stepped from his office and shouted, "Listen up everyone." Every person stopped what they were doing, turned and looked at the boss, "Shots were fired at the university. Get there."


	35. Chapter 35

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Chapter 35

Come on, answer. Ring. Answer, goddamn it. It rang again. Bobby had called Gleason's new cell phone. It rang again. He squeezed his eyes tight with the fingers of his right hand. It rang again. Oh, Christ! He flipped his cell closed and slid it back into his pocket.

"Put the cherry in the window," Bobby told Eames. She reached under the seat and pulled up the cantaloupe sized light. He grabbed it from her, plugged the cord into the adapter outlet on the dash, and set the light on the piece of hook and loop tape stuck to the top of the dash. Without thinking, he clipped his shield to his outer lapel. Eames sped up and wove through traffic.

He pulled his cell from his pocket again and pressed 'speed dial 1'. It rang. Again. And again. Once more. Another ring. Another ring. She told me she'd stay inside. She swore! The cell continued to ring. He felt the bile rise in his gut.

A sea of flashing blue and white, red and white lights lit up the area in front of Belzberg Hall. Fire trucks and ambulances lined Selman and Lowell Streets. Students wandered around in shock, crying, holding onto each other. Uniformed officers were everywhere. EMTs hurried inside carrying equipment; others carried out a stretcher to the waiting ambulances. Television trucks pulled up onto sidewalks.

Eames braked hard and put the right two wheels on the curb. They jumped out and jogged into the mess. Bobby grabbed a uniformed and asked, "Where'd it happen?"

"Everyone down is on the second floor."

Bobby ran to the building, tore through the lobby and took the stairs two and three at a time. He stopped at the top and stared. Bodies, backpacks, books littered the hallway. He heard moans, crying. Medical personnel attended to several. Bobby stepped past two bodies, looking, afraid of finding her. Don't be here, don't be here, don't be here, was his mantra as he looked at the people on the floor. Eames came up behind him, touched him lightly on his arm.

"Look for her."

Don't be here, don't be here, don't be here.

She was on her back just outside the faculty office door. He dropped to his knee beside her and yelled, "Over here! Over here, she's breathing." He took off his overcoat; his suit coat came with it, and covered her. He gently turned her face toward him.

Gleason opened her eyes and fought to focus on his face, "Baub . . ."

"Don't talk, shush, don't talk." He gently wiped his hand over her forehead, she felt cool. "Come on! Over here!" An EMT trotted over, knelt to her right, pulled aside Bobby's coat and began to assess.

"I, I'm . . . sau--," her breath came in shallow gasps; he saw her color begin to fade. Blood covered her chest, neck, arms, it crept from under her body; her laptop lay near her feet with a slug lodged in the underside.

"Just stay still, stay quiet." He took her hand from the bloody floor and laced his fingers with hers; he lifted her hand to his lips. The EMT shouted for a stretcher.

"Bau . . . canna . . . bree . . ." Gleason's eyes started to close.

"Look at me! Honey, look at me!" Bobby released her hand and laid it on her chest.

"Gleason, open your eyes!"

"Help me turn her over," the technician said. He ripped open a package containing a large, thick pressure pad and laid it on top of his case; a pair of scissors sat beside it.

"We're going to turn her over so I can get to her back and staunch this bleeding. Put your hands under her left arm and catch her when I lift her. Hold onto her. Ready?" he looked up at Bobby and Bobby nodded, slipping his hands under her arm. "Here we go." The tech slid his hands under Gleason's right arm and under her back and lifted. Gleason rolled into Bobby's arms. "Try to keep her off the floor." Bobby held her.

The tech took the scissors and cut her sweater and then her undershirt from hem through the neck. He set down the scissors and pulled the fabrics open. He stopped short when he saw the design on her back. "Jesus Christ," he mumbled; he recovered and reached for the pressure pad and applied it. "Let's roll her back." Bobby pushed her limp body with his arms and the EMT caught her and gently laid her down. Bobby watched blood pump from one hole with every heartbeat. The tech retrieved another pressure pad, ripped it open and pulled off her sweater and shirt. He applied the pad and told Bobby to lean on it. He did. Bobby didn't see Gleason's pulse in her neck where it had always been. She wasn't breathing.

The stretcher arrived, "Sir, you're gonna have to step aside." Bobby stood and took a step back. Eames moved to his side.

They lifted her from the floor onto the stretcher. Still working at floor level, Bobby and Eames watched one tech swab a spot on her right arm and try to insert an IV. Another fitted a mask over Gleason's mouth and nose and then checked her blood pressure. They worked fast and finished. With one tech on each side, "on three," they lifted the stretcher and rolled her toward the stairs. The third tech, the one who had applied the pads, asked, "Do you know this woman?"

Eames looked up at Bobby, who watched them carry Gleason down the stairs, and said, "Yes, Dr. Gleason Wintermantle." The tech wrote the name on a form attached to a clipboard.

"Are you family?" he asked.

"No." Eames took a business card from her jacket pocket, gave it to the tech and said, "Let me give you my cell. Use that number to contact us." She dictated the number as the man wrote it on the back. "Is she going to be ok?"

The tech looked at Bobby and then back at Eames, "She's in a really bad way, detective."

Eames asked, "Where are you taking her?"

"Either DeGraff or Presbyterian."

Bobby watched, not believing this was happening. Eames retrieved his coat from the floor, put a hand on his arm again and said, "Come on."

They walked through the chaos toward the SUV. Eames carried his coat. She pulled his shield from the lapel and handed it to him. Without a word, he took it and automatically clipped it to his belt. They sat in the car while Eames called both hospitals to find where they had taken her. Four calls, and thirty minutes later, she found that Gleason was at Methodist General. Bobby sprawled in the passenger seat, seat belt undone, right elbow leaning against the window, hand over his eyes. They rode in silence. She thought she heard a sob.

"We're here."

Bobby stirred, sniffed, wiped his eyes with a squeeze from his right hand, then wiped that hand on his pant leg. He cleared his throat, opened the passenger side door, and stepped out. Eames opened the back door, pulled out his overcoat, withdrew his suit coat, tossed the overcoat back in and slammed the door. "Here, put this on or carry it in front of you."

He followed Eames into the ER and waited for her to get the details. She returned to his side and said, "She's in grave condition, but they've stabilized her and she's being prepped for surgery." Bobby exhaled as if he had been holding his breath. "We have to fill out some paperwork. I didn't see her purse in the hallway. All of her information would be in it."

Eames stepped back to the window and the ER clerk slid a clipboard and pen through the slot under the window. "Please fill out all the highlighted areas and sign. Are you the responsible party?"

Eames looked over at Bobby and then back at the clerk, "He is." She took the clipboard and returned to him. "Come on let's find a seat."

They found two seats together and she handed him the clipboard. "You do it," he said numbly.

Eames filled in the professor's name, profession and place of employment. That was all she knew. "Where does she live?"

"1123 Murdock. Apartment 5C."

"When's her birthday?"

He didn't reply.

"How old is she?"

Silence.

"Is she a citizen?"

Nothing.

"Do you know her mother's maiden name?"

Nothing.

"Is she allergic to any medications?"

Again, nothing.

"Her medical history? Surgeries, pregnancies, miscarriages, abortions?"

It was clear how little he knew of her. Bobby turned to his partner and said, "I don't know anything about her."

Eames set down the pen. "Most of this information will be on record at the university. We'll get it all tomorrow." He sat looking down at his jacket covering some of the blood that covered his shirtfront and sleeves.

"Bobby, do you want to sign as the responsible party?"

He took the clipboard from her and signed.

He followed her to the elevators and they stepped off on nine.

Eames went to the reception desk and spoke with the attendant for a few minutes. She walked back to Bobby and said, "Gleason isn't in surgery yet. The nurse is going to get the surgeon. Come on, let's have a seat." She led Bobby to a chair and sat across from him. He bent forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced in front of him; he stared at the floor.

Other people in the surgical waiting room cast furtive glances at the pair. Eames took a good look at him – blood covered Bobby's white shirt, tie, and gray suit coat, he had it on his pants. His hands were dark with blood. A swipe of blood marked his eyes where he had wiped them.

"Bobby, why don't you go wash up." He didn't respond.

"Bobby . . . ," He stood and looked around, saw the men's room and walked toward it.

He turned on the water, took off his suit coat, and laid it over the next sink; he pulled off his tie and tossed it on top of his coat. He unbuttoned the top two shirt buttons, each cuff and rolled up his sleeves. The water was steaming; it ran over his hands and he watched the dark water swirl down the drain. He pumped soap onto his hands and rubbed them clean, then washed his face. He splashed water on his face, turned off the water and reached for paper towels. Only then did he look at himself in the mirror. 'Don't let her die, don't let her die, don't let her die' became his new mantra. He gathered up his coat and tie and walked out.

Eames stood, talking to Deakins, Sledge and Bishop, two uniforms stood nearby; everyone stopped as Bobby approached.

Deakins spoke, "Eames was bringing us up to date on the professor. They'll take good care of her here."

Bobby looked at his boss, "Who did this?"

"They found the shooter among the casualties," Bishop offered, "he shot himself."

"Any ID?" Bobby asked.

Everyone looked at the floor at the same time. Sledge took a step away. "Elliott Baughman," said Deakins.


	36. Chapter 36

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Chapter 36

A rage like none other descended on Bobby. He threw his coat and tie on a chair, hands fisting and unfisting. His face literally darkened, his breathing deepened and the others could see him shake, trying to remain in control. He looked at Deakins and the two women as if he could kill them with his bare hands. Then he looked at Sledge. Bobby walked to him; got up in his face. The other three and the two uniforms stepped toward Bobby; nobody did anything. Sledge stood his ground.

Through clenched teeth, breathing heavily through his nose, Bobby said slowly, darkly, "I wanted to pick up that bastard. I wanted to bring him in for questioning. He wouldn't have been there. He wouldn't have shot up all those people. Gleason would not be dying right now. You goddamn bastard."

Sledge took it all without a flinch, he never broke eye contact. He waited for Goren to swing at him, expecting it. Sledge could say nothing. The men stared at each other, and then Sledge turned and walked away. The other three watched him stop and speak to the two uniforms, one joined him, they walked to the elevator and Sledge pushed the down button.

Bobby was still shaking, his fury unchanged. Everyone, including the other people in the waiting room, watched him.

"Wintermantle family?" a woman in green surgical scrubs, reading from a clipboard, called out as she turned the corner to enter the waiting room.

The group turned toward the voice. Bobby and Eames walked to her.

"I'm Dr. Creighton," she said reaching for Eames', then Bobby's, hands. "I'll be operating. Ms Wintermantle is in very bad shape. I am surprised she is still alive after losing so much blood. She took three bullets, all entering through the back." She read from the clipboard, "One bullet entered the back wall and exited the front wall of the upper lobe of her left lung, collapsing it; that bullet is still inside. A second bullet missed her spine, but nicked the coronary artery and it is still inside. That wound did the most damage; she bled externally and internally. Her chest cavity filled with blood, further restricting her breathing. The third bullet passed through without doing much damage."

She stopped and looked at them both and then continued, "I want to emphasize how grave her condition is. She had a crisis while being prepped."

"What kind of crisis?" Eames asked.

The doctor took a deep breath and said, "Her blood pressure plummeted, she stopped breathing and her heart stopped. We were able to resuscitate her. When she is stable enough for surgery, we'll begin."

Bobby had been standing with his right hand tucked in his left armpit, his left arm bent at the elbow, chewing on his thumb. His head dropped and he squeezed his eyes with the fingers of his left hand. He removed his fingers and his eyes were red. He sniffed.

"I know this is hard to hear. I'm sorry," the surgeon said kindly.

"What will you do?" asked Eames.

"We're going to use a newly developed patch to repair the nick in the artery and the two holes in her lung. It is a hybrid tissue made of titanium and polyester threads woven with threads of human tissue. We suture the patch over the hole, and as the human tissue assimilates with the surrounding tissue, the titanium and polyester assimilate as well. It forms a tremendously strong closure. The patch has proven to be about eighty percent effective.

"This procedure is not without risks, of course. The patch may fail to assimilate; or, the suture line may rupture. However, the bigger risks include infection and rejection. Infection is always a threat with any kind of surgery. And, because the human tissue in the patch is not her own, she stands the chance of rejecting it. She is receiving three patches, so her chance of failure, rupture, infection or rejection triples her risk. Please keep in mind she may not survive surgery." She looked at them both and walked back the way she had come.

Bobby issued a shuddering sigh, pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his eyes and nose. Eames stood beside him. He turned toward her then followed her back to the others, who stood watching.

Bobby kept walking and sat off by himself. Eames filled in the others.

"Where the hell do you keep it," Sledge mumbled to himself as he sat at Bobby's desk, rummaging through the center drawer. He found what he sought, stood, then turned and headed to the crash room. Sledge scanned the doors on the six-foot rack of square, metal lockers. He found the one with "Goren" written on a strip of tape stuck to the door and opened the lock with the key he had taken.

He pulled out a backpack, set it on the bench in front of the lockers, straddled the bench and opened it. He pulled out a pair of old tennis shoes, a pair of old jeans, an old ripped tee shirt and nothing else. Sledge threw the ripped shirt into Bobby's locker, slammed it shut, locked it and went to his own locker.

From it, he took a clean black tee shirt – a work tee shirt with 'POLICE' printed across the shoulders in white. He figured he and Bobby were about the same size. He shut his locker, tossed the black shirt, shoes and pants into Bobby's bag, snapped it shut and went to look for the uniform he had told to wait.

"I thought we needed something," Bishop returned with a tray of coffee and assorted creamers, sugars and so on.

"Thanks," Deakins and Eames said together, each reaching. Eames stood and took the cup over to Bobby.

"Here," she said, holding the cup out to him. He sat as before, elbows on knees, fingers laced, staring at the floor.

"I don't want anything," he whispered. She took the seat beside him.

Eames had no idea of what to say to him. She could barely breathe when she let her mind tiptoe to the vast wasteland of guilt she harbored. She could not even begin to reconcile the blame she carried for convincing Bobby not to bring in Elliott. Bobby was right about things, especially people, ninety-nine times out of every hundred. Why hadn't she trusted his thinking this time?

They were partners, he was her other half. He made her whole. Over the years, they had come to work as a single entity. She was supposed to stand by him, back him up every step of the way. Yet, she had betrayed him, had taken Edward's side. Why had she done that? She knew why.

From the moment Bobby found Gleason lying on the floor, Eames had been in charge. She automatically kicked into protection mode, like a little sister looking after a hurt older brother. He just followed her, let her do the talking, let her get the information, let her take care of him.

Eames had never seen Bobby cry, not even when his mom was at her worst. She had never seen him so angry; she honestly thought he was going to hurt Sledge. Everyone did, even the uniforms, they had stepped up to separate the two if it came to that. She had never seen him so loving, kneeling over Gleason, being so gentle with her. She had never seen him so frightened, watching the EMTs work on her.

I need him to say something, scream at me like he screamed at Edward, she thought. Say something, anything. Don't let this hang between us like this. She spoke in her mind all that she wanted to say to him. She apologized, begged his forgiveness, swore allegiance to their partnership. She knew she would never have the opportunity to say anything to him. He would keep this mountain between them. It would never be the same.


	37. Chapter 37

99

Rune Alignment

Chapter 37

"He should really change his clothes," Bishop said to Deakins, "he's covered in blood. The other people are looking at him funny. I think he's spooking them."

"Lynn, what he has on should be the least of your worries," Deakins checked his watch. "I need get back, I'm sure all hell has broken loose. Will either you or Eames stay with him till we know something more?"

"Of course we'll stay. He won't be alone."

Deakins walked over to where Bobby and Eames sat. "Bobby, I have to get back. They are doing all they can for Gleason. Either Alex or Lynne will stay here with you. Are you going to be ok?" Deakins waited.

Finally Bobby sat up, looked up at his boss; his face said it all.

"Take care of him," Deakins said to Eames. She nodded. Deakins' cell began to ring.

"I need to tell you what I've done so you don't kill me before you fire me," Sledge said to Deakins when he answered.

"What the hell have you done now?"

"I called Carver and asked him to issue a seventy-two hour gag order preventing the names of the victims from being distributed to the public. I know I have no authority to do that, and Carver reminded me of that fact, but I wanted to ensure that the victims remained anonymous, at least for now. Carver said he would do it when I explained why."

"All right, now explain it to me," Deakins replied

"I'm not sure Elliott was the only one after the professor. I think someone else made those calls. If that person thinks the professor is dead, or wounded, he'll disappear. We'll lose him." Deakins said nothing. "I know it's a long shot, but it can't hurt anything."

"I don't know," Deakins replied. "Elliott's priors in Wales – the stalking, molestation – identified him as a person of interest." Deakins paused, thinking how to say what needed to be said next. He didn't get the chance.

"Don't think I don't know that Goren was right. Don't think I don't know now that the student should have been brought in for questioning; that had he been inside, those people wouldn't be dead or hurt right now. Don't think I won't carry the guilt for that decision forever."

Deakins didn't know how to respond.

Sledge continued, "Let me do this. Go with me on this. Let's see if the calls continue. Call Carver and give the OK to suppress the names. Please, let me see if I'm right on this."

Deakins considered. "All right, I'll call Carver"

"Thanks."

The uniformed officer who had left with Sledge returned carrying a backpack. He walked to Eames and said, "This is a change of clothes for Detective Goren. It was in his locker. I can wait till he changes and take his suit and things back with me."

Eames looked at the young officer and took the backpack. "Thank you."

"Yes ma'am."

Eames walked over to Bobby and sat beside him. "Bobby, how about getting out of those clothes? The officer brought what you had in your locker." He didn't move. "Bobby . . .?" she put her hand on his arm.

Bobby shook off her hand as though her hand was flame. He shot up, turned to face her and growled, "Don't touch me. Don't do anything for me. Stay away from me." He wrenched the backpack from her other hand and strode into the men's room.

Bishop and the two uniforms, and the other people in the waiting room, watched what had just happened. Eames sat with her mouth open, stunned at his outburst.

Bobby threw the pack back into a sink and paced in a circle, again clenching and unclenching his fists. His rage had returned and now it focused on his partner. He couldn't think straight. How could she not take my side? How could she not trust me? She always trusts me. Why didn't she believe me? She's my partner, it's her job to stand by me, be there for me.

Jesus Christ! she stood by Sledge, _Sledge_! That goddamn bastard. He has fucked up every single thing in my life since he showed up. Now he has destroyed the only thing that matters. Bobby slammed his left fist into the ceramic wall beside the towel dispenser. He slammed it again. And again.

Thoughts of Gleason flooded his mind. He raised both arms to his head in a helpless motion and began to cry out loud.

Everyone in the waiting room turned and looked at the sound of something hitting the wall in the men's room. The officer who had delivered the backpack looked at Eames, pointed to himself and then towards the restroom. Eames nodded and the officer moved.

Bobby was leaning on a sink, heaving sobs, when the officer opened the door. The man stood and watched the detective, he noticed the hole in the wall. Bobby didn't see him. Slowly his sobbing lessened and he straightened up. He shuddered a huge sigh and saw the uniform standing just inside the door. He wiped his face with his left forearm and the officer saw Bobby's bloody hand.

"Can I do anything for you, detective?" he asked softly.

Bobby felt the kindness and empathy this man exuded. He wiped his face again and shook his head.

"Ok. You should change and then get that hand looked at."

Bobby looked at him and then at his hands. He saw the damage to the back of his left fist and then searched the walls. He found the hole he had made and groaned. He looked back at the officer and nodded, "Yeah, thanks." The officer nodded in return and left.

The officer walked to Eames and said, "He's really messed up; emotionally, I mean. The department is going to have to take care of the wall in there. His hand is going need medical attention."

Bobby opened the backpack and pulled out the tennis shoes, tee shirt and jeans and set them on the edge of the sink. He kicked off his shoes and put them in the pack. His shirt and pants were stiff with Gleason's dried blood. He emptied his pockets, removed his shield and holster from his belt and set it all on his jeans; then, Bobby stripped the belt from the loops and set it on the jeans as well. He stepped from his trousers, folded them and stuffed them inside the backpack. He pulled on his old jeans, slid the belt and replaced his weapon and shield. Buttons flew as he ripped open his dress shirt; he stripped it off, and then stuffed it like a rag into the pack.

Bobby turned on the water, waited for it to warm and then stuck his left hand under the stream. It burned like flame and he hissed in a deep breath and uttered a gravelly groan; eventually, the water soothed his skinless, torn knuckles. He used soap to wash his hands, grimacing at the sting. He rubbed his face and then splashed it with water, dried with paper towels and gently dabbed his hand.

He picked up the black tee shirt, this isn't mine, he thought. It was the right size, though, and he pulled it on. He knelt and tied his old, beat up tennis shoes. He grabbed the pack and pulled open the restroom door.

"Over here," Gavin shouted. "Look at this. I think I've found it."

Gleason jogged to where he stood and looked toward where his finger pointed. "What?" she asked.

"Over there. See it? It's right there," he shook his finger, pointing. "There."

"Gavin, I don't know what you are pointing at."

"Come on, let's get closer." She felt him take her hand and off they ran, Gavin leading her.

"It's right there. Look. Gleason, you're looking right at it. Don't you see it?"

Gleason stared, searched, swept her eyes everywhere. She saw woods, the bare limbs twisted and broken. A field lay fallow ahead and to the right, as far as she could see. The stink of decay drifted from the mossy swamp on the left; dead trees stood broken amid the muck. The sky above darkened and thunder rumbled somewhere, announcing coming doom. Lightning flashed far away, but coming nearer.

Gavin watched her search. "You don't see it, do you?"

She shook her head no, "Show me. Show me where it is. Take me there."

Gavin let go of her hand and started to walk away, "I've tried to take you there, so many times; tried to show you so many times. It's always been right in front of you, but you can't see it. You won't let yourself see it. You probably never will. And now it's too late."

"She's crashing!" People scrambled to try to save Gleason's life.


	38. Chapter 38

Rune Alignment

Chapter 38

"Let's go! Let's go! Stabilize her already! She has family out there. Someone go prepare them for the worst."

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­+

Everyone turned when Bobby exited the restroom and watched as he returned to the waiting room. The same officer approached him and Bobby handed him the pack back. They spoke briefly and shook hands. The officer walked to Eames, they spoke briefly and she gave him Bobby's suit coat, then the officer returned to his partner. They spoke briefly and then they left.

Bobby again took a seat away from everyone. He slouched in the seat and laid his right ankle across his left thigh, set his elbows on the arms of the chair and laced his fingertips against his mouth. He closed his eyes.

Eames wanted to talk with Bobby, but was afraid to. Her mind continued to try to wrap itself around what he had said. He didn't mean it, she said to herself, it was the rage, he was so angry, he was upset. . . She would not let herself even think about the exchange that they had had at the elevator earlier today – when she convinced him he was wrong about picking up Elliott. He thinks this is all my fault. I know it is, Bobby, I know it and I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

Forty minutes later, the receptionist in the surgical waiting room called out, "Wintermantle family." Bobby shot up and strode to the desk; Bishop and Eames followed.

"I'm here for Wintermantle," Bobby told the woman.

"Please meet with the doctor in room three around the corner. This way."

Bobby's heart stopped, he couldn't breathe.

Eames stepped beside him and asked, "Is she ok?"

"Please meet with the doctor, room three." The attendant's eyes were kind and sad. Her skin was flawless, yet her eyes bore lines from watching worry and prayer for so many years.

Bobby walked the direction the attendant had indicated. "Bobby?" Eames called. He ignored her and turned the corner.

"All right, tell me why Dr. Wintermantle was at the university today when she was supposed to be at home." Sledge asked the graduate student, Brandon. They were sitting in an empty classroom on the first floor of Belzberg Hall. Sledge had gone there after sending Bobby's backpack to the hospital.

"I told you, she called me last night and asked if I could cover her classes for a few days. She never really said why, she just said she had a major problem that would keep her out for a couple of days. I know she called Dean Boyer because the dean called me and asked if I was prepared to take her classes. I said 'sure'." Brandon answered.

"Did you cover her class this morning?"

"Yes, her first class is at eight fifteen till nine forty-five, 'Written Dialects.' It's a small graduate class, only eight students. We pretty much sat around and talked about stuff – dialect stuff, I mean. We debated the significance of ancient slang on the development of a society's vocabulary. Then we –."

"Yeah, yeah, fascinating," Sledge cut him off. "So, why was Dr. Wintermantle at the university when she was supposed to be at home?"

"I-don't-know. I didn't know she was even there until I saw her lying on the floor." Brandon paused, looked at the scratched desktop and asked softly, "Is Dr. Wintermantle going to die?"

"We all die. This morning, did she call you or anyone else?"

Brandon looked at the detective with shock. "I've told you everything I know. You'll need to talk to someone else to get what you're looking for." Brandon stood up, lifted his pack back and left.

Shit, Sledge said to himself, I've got no bedside manner. He looked at his list of names, Carolyn Majors, c'mon down. He stood and went to call the next person into his impromptu interrogation room.

Bobby found the room, entered, shut the door and sat in one of the three chairs, the one facing the door. The room was bland. A print of a window looking out into a field of wildflowers hung on the wall. A small table held a lamp and box of tissues. He sat forward with his elbows on his knees; he still couldn't draw a full breath. The minutes ticked by. He stared at the floor.

The door opened and Bobby stood up. A different doctor entered with his hand out and the two men shook. "I'm Dr. Patel, a member of Ms Wintermantle's team. Are you her husband?"

Bobby whispered, "No."

"I need to prepare you for the worst. She's had another incident and they've taken her directly into surgery. It is not looking good. You need to be ready for her not to survive." He looked at the giant detective and saw a frightened little boy. "I am very sorry. Are you here by yourself?" Bobby shook his head. "Do you want me to tell the others?"

Bobby shook his head and sobbed out, "No. Can I, can I, stay here for a minute?"

Dr. Patel put a gentle hand on Bobby's arm and said, "Take all the time you need." He left and shut the door. The doctor stopped at the reception desk and spoke with the attendant who glanced at Eames and Bishop and nodded.

"We've got a pulse," a nurse announced.

"Then let's go," said Dr. Creighton.

Two orderlies wheeled Gleason into a surgical suite; someone flipped a switch and the room filled with the music of Vivaldi.

Carolyn Majors turned out to be the secretary in the faculty offices. Her nose was raw and her eyes were red. She appeared to be in her mid-sixties. Sledge reminded himself to go easy, this lady is a wreck. "Ms Majors, I'm Detective Sledge. I need your help in finding out why Dr. Wintermantle was at the university when she had arranged to be away for a few days."

Ms Majors sniffed, wiped her nose and nodded.

"Did Dr. Wintermantle call in this morning?"

Another sniff, wipe and nod.

"Did you take the call?"

Sniff, wipe nod.

"What did she say?"

"She, she, she, she's always been so lovely. She's kind and thoughtful. So beautiful. I wish my Davy wasn't so gay, she'd be so good for him."

Sledge rubbed his forehead and bit his tongue. "I'm sure she is all of those things. Now, what did she say when she called this morning?"

"I love to hear her talk, her little bit of accent, you know. I don't really know where . . . "

"Ms Majors! Please, what did the professor say when she called? Please."

The secretary looked up at the detective sitting on the edge of the teacher's desk. Her attitude changed and she answered, "She wanted to know if anyone was available to run her laptop to her. She said she was unable to leave. She wanted to continue working on her book."

"Thank you, Ms Majors, thank you, very good. So, why was Dr. Wintermantle at the university when she was supposed to be at home?"

Ms Majors looked at Sledge as if he was an idiot. "You're the detective, what do you think?"

Sledge looked at his sweet woman and could have rung her neck. "Ok, I think no one was available to take her computer to her. She's such a sweet thing, she didn't want to bother you. So, she got in a cab, came in, came up here, walked to her office, got her machine, walked back out and got shot in the back. How's that? Am I right?"

Ms Majors' mouth fell open, her eyes went wide, her hand flew to her chest and she said menacingly, "You are a nasty man," got up and left.

"Hey, one more thing, Ms Majors," the woman stopped and turned, "did you see the professor's hand bag anywhere? Was it left in her office, in the hallway? Do you know where it is?"

Carolyn Majors looked at this nasty man, thought a moment, and then said, "If I'd found it, I'd have brought it with me, to give to you. Do you see it, detective? So, I guess I didn't find it. Good day." She turned and left.

Crap.


	39. Chapter 39

Rune Alignment

Chapter 39

"Alex, I'm going to go get us some food. We've been here almost seven hours. He's going to have to eat something pretty soon. I won't be thirty minutes, there's a bodega on the next block. Can I get you anything in particular?" Lynne Bishop was being the big sister to both Alex and Bobby.

Alex shook her head, thought a minute, and then said, "Get him some orange juice, a couple bottles. And a few apples if they have any. He likes salt and vinegar potato chips, too. If they have a deli, get him pastrami on rye with lots of yellow mustard. Do you need some money?"

"No, I'm good. What about you, what do you want?"

"I'm not hungry."

"I'll get something. You have to be strong for him. I'll be right back." Bishop left and Eames sat, wondering, fearing.

Eames went to the attendant and said, "I'm going to go sit with my friend, ok?" The attendant nodded, "Room three, right around the corner."

Eames opened the door quietly, stepped in and saw Bobby in the far chair, bent over, elbows on knees, with his hands laced behind his neck. I caused this, she thought, I love him and I did this to him. "Bobby?"

He didn't move. "What did the doctor say?"

"She's going to die."

"He said that? The doctor told you she's going to die?"

Bobby sat up, looked at his partner and said matter-of-factly, "Yeah, she's going to die. She was shot three times in the back because I didn't pick up the shooter before he got to her. That's what he said."

Eames crossed to him in three steps. "Bobby, I, I'm . . . forgive me. Please. I'm so sorry."

He looked up at Eames, studied her face, saw the pain and regret she carried. "Go to hell."

"BP is sixty-two over eighty-four."

"Process and bag those for the police. Let's patch that artery first."

A nurse set the pan with the two slugs on a counter along the wall and began to work. Another held a flat tray with three patches the size of a big man's thumbnail. Each patch was made of white, green and red, tightly woven threads; the threads stuck out from the four edges of the patch, like fringe on a rug.

"Rinse this, please," the doctor said and a nurse ran a soft stream of water from a thin tube over the dent in Gleason's artery. The doctor dabbed the dent and reached for a patch. "How's she doing?"

"BP is still sixty-two over eighty-four. Pulse is slow and erratic. The machine is breathing for her."

Bobby's head pounded as he left the small conference room and returned to the waiting room. He took the same seat he had had most of the day. People had come and gone. Bishop was gone, he noticed.

His left hand throbbed in time with his head. A huge chunk of meat was missing from his middle knuckle. He could see wet, red and white tissue. He would have a scar. The rest had started to scab over and the skin was tight. He tried bending his knuckles and the skin ripped open where the scab had started to form; it stung like crazy and he winced. Shit!

Bobby's mind flitted like a dragonfly. He'd had her for so short a time, just days, not even a week. It was good, so good. His heart felt like his left fist, raw, torn, a huge piece missing. And, like his hand, his heart would bear a scar. He caught a sob and settled back, right ankle over his left thigh, lacing his fingers against his mouth.

Eames cell phone rang three times before she heard it. "Eames," she said. She was still sitting in the small room.

"Anything new?" Deakins asked.

"It's not good. The doctor told Bobby that Gleason was probably not going to make it."

"Jesus. How's he doing?"

Eames didn't know what to say. She couldn't say anything because the lump in her throat was chocking off her air.

"Alex? How's Bobby?"

"Uhm, he's, he's . . ." the shudder in her voice was loud and clear, "he's very angry at me. He's a mess, really. He put his fist through the wall in the men's room. The department will have to take care of that."

Deakins said nothing and then, "Ok. Is Lynne still there?"

"She went to get some food. She'll be back shortly."

"Alex, how are you?"

She sobbed once and said, "This is all my fault. I told him not to pick up Elliott. I listened to Edward. I should have never have done that. I needed to stand by Bobby. But I didn't do that, I went with Sledge and now she's going to die and it's my fault. He hates me. He'll never forgive me. I'm so sorry. I'm sorry."

Deakins listened to her cry. He had wondered about her decision when she'd convinced Goren not to go pick up the student. Eames had always trusted Goren. Their mutual trust is what made them so good together. They were his best team. He wondered if they would survive this.

"Alex, this is no one person's fault. This case has too many variables. Right now, you need to be strong for Bobby. He needs you; he's depending on you. He's lashing out at you because you are the closest one to him. He has to put that anger somewhere because it's too much for him to bear on top of all the other things he's feeling. You're his friend, the closest person to him so he's going to lay it all on you. Don't beat yourself up. We have to take this one minute at a time. Deal with what he needs right now. There will be time afterward to sort out all the feelings. Just be there for him, ok?"

"Yes."

"Call me if anything happens. I'm going to call Bobby. Does he have his cell?"

"Yes."

"Take care of him. And yourself."

"Bye." Eames shut her phone. Deakins was everyone's dad.

Bobby's cell rang and he pulled it from his pocket. He flipped it open, looked at the incoming number and flipped it shut.


	40. Chapter 40

Rune Alignment

Chapter 40

"I'm going to leave now," the attendant said to Eames. Eames' face was red, blotchy and wet; she was not a pretty crier. "Honey are you alright? Let me get you something."

"No, no, really. I'm fine. Just the stress building all day. Thank you, though." Eames responded.

The kind attendant looked at Eames with those eyes that had seen so much suffering and loss. "Your friend is the last surgery this evening, except for any emergencies, of course. It may be quite a while yet, until they finish. Let me get you some pillows and blankets." She walked around the corner, where the little conference room was.

Eames looked over at Bobby. He hadn't moved. I need to talk to Deakins some time tomorrow, she said to herself.

The woman returned with four pillows and a stack of blankets. "Here you are, sweetie. Do you want me to give that detective his, or do you?" She had suspected they had argued. She had seen it over and over in this room.

Eames glanced over and said, "He's upset with me. Could you?"

"I'd be glad to. You rest now. It will be different in the morning. Good night."

Eames watched that angel of a woman carry two pillows and three blankets over to Bobby. She watched him straighten up and take it all from her and set it on the chair beside him. The attendant put her hand on Bobby's shoulder and bent down to say something. Then Bobby stood up and gave the woman a hug.

"So, Detective Sledge, it seems you are the only one around this evening," Dr. Huang said.

"Yeah, we've had quite a day. You should watch the news. Get informed."

Huang watched the detective – Sledge never stopped moving, he shuffled papers, stacked folders, checked a list of some sort on a notepad. Huang wondered what this man was hiding, covering, denying, ignoring. He's going to explode if he doesn't calm down.

"Detective, what are you doing?"

"Huh?" Sledge looked over at the psychiatrist.

"Sit down. I spoke with you earlier today, said I was going to pick up the disc of messages. Said I wanted to talk with Detective Goren. Remember, before the shooting at the university?"

"Yeah, that was this morning. Let me see if I can find that for you." Sledge started looking through the papers on his desk. "I had it right here this morning, when I talked to you. . ."

"Edward, stop. I already have it. I've listened to the messages and done my assessment. The preliminary profile is ready." Huang thought, this man is nearly frantic, I don't recall him being this way; he's usually so laid back, making jokes, almost insolent. Something is really bugging him.

"Oh, ok, good. Well, Goren, Eames and Bishop are all over at Methodist General. I'm the only one here. If you want to talk with Mr. Wonderful, you need to head thata way." Sledge put both hands on the desk to push himself up.

"Sit down, please. I want to give you my assessment of the messages. If you want to hear it. I also have a narrative if you would rather read that."

Sledge had always been suspicious of shrinks. They knew stuff about you that you didn't even know yourself. They made little things into big things and always made you feel bad about your past. On the other hand, they knew things about other people and that was always interesting.

"Ok, spill it. What's with our sicko?"

"Let's eat. I'm starved."

Bishop returned with a shopping bag of food. Eames and Bobby were the only two in the waiting room; they sat on opposite sides of the room. Neither even looked at Bishop as she began unpacking food.

"Come on, you two, come and get it." Bishop looked at her colleagues and knew something had happened. She walked over to Eames, saw her red face and asked, "Alex, what happened? Is she ok? Did something happen?"

Eames shook her head and said, "The doctor told Bobby that Gleason probably wasn't going to make it. He took it really badly and . . . he, he, got upset with me."

"God, I can't leave you two alone for a minute. I'm sorry, Alex. Don't listen to anything he says right now. Bobby's not himself. Take it with a pound of salt. He won't remember half of what he's said. Let it go.

"Listen, you both need to eat something. Don't tell me you're not hungry. It's for your health. Here," Bishop walked back to the bag and took out a carton of blueberry yogurt, a plastic spoon, and a bottle of cranberry juice. "Here, this will help. Lots of natural sugar. Eat this. I'll go talk to Bobby."

"Thanks," Eames whispered.

Bishop took the shopping bag over to where Bobby sat – slouched, right ankle over left leg, hands against mouth – as before. His eyes were closed.

Bishop knew better than to touch him. "Bobby? I know you're awake. I've some food here. You have to eat something. Look at me!"

Bobby sat up, looked at her and said, "Leave me alone."

"No, goddamn it! You have to eat something before you pass out. Now stop being this piss ant brat and drink this orange juice!" Bishop unscrewed the top of the bottle and stuck it out to him. "Take it. Drink this goddamn juice, right now."

It was probably a good thing they were the only ones there.

Bobby looked at Bishop and then at the bottle of orange juice. He was so thirsty and orange juice is one of his favorites; it looked really cold. He grabbed it from her and swigged it down. The bottle was empty in three glugs.

"There, didn't that taste good? Thank you. You'll feel better. Here, have another one."

Bishop took the empty from Bobby and handed him a fresh one. Then she dug into the bag and pulled out a bag of salt and vinegar chips, a pastrami sandwich and a handful of mustard packets. "I didn't think they'd let me bring beer in here, so you'll have to do with orange juice and soda. There's a couple of apples in there, too. Now eat this shit, ok?"

"Yeah, thanks." Bobby pulled open the bag of chips and dug in.

"Let's close her up. How is she holding?"

"BP is climbing, ninety over one seven. She's weaning off the machine; she'll breathe on her own in twenty or so. Heart rate is weak and somewhat erratic, but improving. She's doing better than I would have thought."

"Good. Let's get her started on OKT2 and see where she goes from here. Move her into recovery. I'll talk with the family."

"Over here," Gavin shouted. "Look at this. I think I've found it."

Gleason jogged to where he stood and looked toward where his finger pointed. "What?" she asked.

"Over there. See it? It's right there," he shook his finger, pointing. "There."

"Gavin, I don't know what you are pointing at."

"Come on, let's get closer." She felt him take her hand and off they ran, Gavin leading her.

"It's right there. Look. Gleason, you're looking right at it. Don't you see it?"

Gleason stared, searched, swept her eyes everywhere. She saw woods, the deep green masses of leaves waving in the slight breeze. A pasture spread wide to the right, bound by a rail fence along the dirt road and a short, stone wall on the far, far end. Rows of tall corn rustled to the left. She watched the moving shadows the clouds cast on the pasture as they passed above.

Gavin watched her search. "You don't see it, do you?"

She shook her head no, "Show me. Show me where it is. Take me there."

Gavin let go of her hand and took a step back, "I've tried to take you there, so many times; tried to show you so many times. It's always been right in front of you, but you can't see it. You won't let yourself see it. Let yourself see it. It is good."

Bobby finished the sandwich and half of the chips with a can of soda. He had been hungry and now felt better; his head stopped pounding. He stood, brushed crumbs from his shirt and lap then picked up his empties and the sandwich wrapper; he took them to the tall bin against the wall. He never looked at Eames, never even thought of her. He peeked in to the shopping bag again and found two apples in the bottom and two big bottles of water. He took an apple, rubbed it on his shirt, sat and chomped away.

Bishop and Eames sat together. Bishop had gotten them yogurt, grapes, juice and bottles of water. She also had a box of cookies.

"So, the professor is really bad?" Bishop asked.

Eames just nodded.

"You said Bobby is upset with you. Did he yell at you?"

Eames took a drink of juice and said, "No. He told me to go to hell."


	41. Chapter 41

Rune Alignment

Chapter 41

Bobby saw the doctor come around the corner, jumped up and crossed the room in no time. Eames and Bishop saw him move and stood up; the three met the doctor at the desk.

"She's alive, though I don't know why."

Bobby uttered a sound, dropped his head and covered his face with his hands. The doctor noticed the damage to his left hand.

"She's not out of the woods yet. Nevertheless, she has a good start. The patches sutured well and we've started her on a course of OKT2, a drug that suppresses the immune system. It reduces the activity of T lymphocytes, which are the cells that cause transplant rejection. Do you know if she has allergies to any drugs?

Bishop and Eames looked at Bobby. "I don't know."

"Well, if an infection occurs, we won't be using penicillin. The greatest risk is staphylococcus aureus and it's penicillin resistant. All of her numbers seem to be holding. She's in recovery right now and will be for several hours. When she wakes up, she'll go to ICU. The first forty-eight hours are the important ones. We need to see how she does through the night."

"When can I see her?" Bobby asked.

"Not until tomorrow sometime. Probably sometime after noon. You can call this number anytime to check on her status. It rings into the nurses' station wherever she is." The doctor pulled a business card from the back pocket of her scrub pants and handed it to Bobby.

"Thanks."

"All of you need to go home and get some sleep." Then to Bobby, she said, "But first, I need to see you back here to fix up that hand."

Bobby looked down at the back of his left hand and said, "It's fine. Thanks. No."

The doctor looked at the tall, good-looking detective and saw an exhausted, relieved man. "Come on, I'm on a roll. It won't take long."

Bishop said, "Go on, get it done while we're here."

"Follow me," the doctor said and Bobby followed her.

"Why don't we both go home? It's late, detective," Huang said to Sledge. "Tomorrow the others will be in, Deakins will be in and then I'll only have to share this once."

"Naw, I have a lot to do here. I'm gonna stay and get some stuff done. You go ahead. I'll be fine here," Sledge said, shifting papers again. "I'll see you tomorrow. You're coming, when? Morning would probably be best for us."

Huang looked at Sledge, he's running on adrenaline, something is eating him alive. He'll run out of energy soon, hit a wall, and probably sleep here. "That sounds fine. I'll be around sometime in the morning. Don't work too late."

"Yeah, no problem, see you tomorrow."

Huang left and Sledge looked at his to do list:

results on envelope

disc of land line messages

Elliott's home address

examine his place

What else, what else, he thought. I'm missing something. What else is there? Sledge's gut was on fire. He dropped his pen, put his elbows on his desk and covered his face with his hands. Jesus, he thought, when you fuck up, you fuck up good.

He scanned a list of numbers taped to the pullout shelf above his desk drawers, lifted the phone and dialed. "Yes, this is Detective Edward Sledge of Major Case. I need to know how Dr. Gleason Wintermantle is doing. She had surgery this afternoon. She was a victim of the shooting at the university today." He waited, listened. "I see. Thank you." Edward hung up, covered his face again and whispered, "Thank God."

Bobby's hand took longer than anyone thought. An hour and twenty minutes later, he came back around the corner. His left arm was in a sling and his hand was wrapped in an enormous bandage. He carried two prescription slips in his right hand.

"Dear God!" Bishop exclaimed. "What did you do? I thought it was skinned knuckles."

Bobby shook his head and looked sheepish, "I know, I know. Two knuckles are broken. I guess there's cinderblock behind the drywall under the ceramic tiles."

"And you're left handed, ouch!" Bishop looked at her watch, "Eleven twenty-seven! No wonder we're beat. Let's go home."

Bobby had ignored Eames completely since the conversation in the small conference room. Eames had looked directly at him throughout the evening, but he never saw her. This is it, she thought, it's over.

They walked to the elevator, descended to the lobby, and walked out into the night. The air was cool; rain was coming, you could smell it. A slight breeze ruffled Eames' hair and she hooked it back behind her ears. She looked like a tired twelve year old.

"Well, uhmmm . . . how are we doing this?" Bishop asked.

"I'll catch a cab. I have to stop and get these filled. I'll see you tomorrow. Thanks for staying, Lynn. I appreciate it. And the food, thanks." It was as if Eames wasn't even there.

"Let me take you home for God's sake." Lynn said.

"No, no really, I'm in the other direction. A cab will be fine. Really. Thanks. See you tomorrow, 'night." Bobby walked over to the cabman and a yellow cab swung around the corner.

"I'll take you home, Bobby," Alex said. He ignored her.

"Ok then, good night. 'Night Alex," Bishop said and looked at Alex.

Eames waved weakly, "Yeah, 'night."

The cab pulled up in front of Bobby. Eames called out, "Bobby, wait!" Bobby opened the back passenger door and got in.

Sledge caught himself nodding off at his desk. He glanced at his watch, twelve forty-six. He felt like he'd worked a week without sleep. God, his stomach burned. Take your ass to bed, he said to himself. You're gonna be no good to anyone tomorrow. He pushed away from his desk and stood up and locked his weapon in his top left drawer. He stopped in the men's room, finished, flushed and washed his hands and face. He did not know the man in the mirror. So, this is what guilt does to you, huh?

Edward headed to the crash room. Two sets of bunk beds sat against two walls. He shrugged off his coat and hung it on one of the hooks screwed behind the door; then he unbuttoned the rest of his shirt buttons, took it off and hung it beside his coat. He sat on the bench in front of the bank of lockers and took off his shoes. He pulled himself up onto the top bunk – the sheets were cleaner since no one ever wanted to climb up there.

He stretched out on his back, hands on his chest, staring at the ceiling. He didn't think he could sleep. Edward's mind ran wild with everything that had happened today. Goren kept slipping back in front. Jesus, what a pompous son-of-a-bitch; so smart, so _pretty_, so inept with people, so . . . so, goddamn weird. Yet, Goren got a beauty this time. Edward closed his eyes, thank God, she's alive. He finally slept.

The cab stopped at the all night drugstore nearest Bobby's apartment. Bobby got back in with a bag containing two bottles of pills. A few more blocks and he paid the driver, climbed the stairs and entered his apartment.

Bobby went straight to the kitchen for a bottle of water. He struggled to open the pill bottle that read, "Take two pills four times a day for pain." He took two red and blue pills and looked at the other bottle: "Take one tablet twice a day." it was for infection. He did not replace the caps.

He took the water and pills to his bedroom, turned on the bedside lamp, and set down the water and pill bottles. He glanced at the bed as he struggled to unclip his weapon from his left hip with his right hand. His frustration was climbing when it finally came loose. He set it and his badge on the dresser. He struggled to remove his pocketknife and money clip from his left pocket; he set them with the others. He easily pulled his keys from his right pocket and placed them on top as well. He kicked off his shoes.

Gleason had made the bed. Her green chenille throw sprayed across the foot of the bed. He pulled it to his nose and breathed in deeply. Cinnamon. He laid down on the bed, pulled her pillow under his head, clutched the throw and sobbed until he fell asleep.


	42. Chapter 42

Rune Alignment

Chapter 42

"Hey! Sleeping Beauty, wake up," shouted Bishop.

Sledge rolled over, got up on one elbow and squinted down at his partner, "Jesus Christ, Bishop, take it easy. What time is it?"

"It's after eight, bright eyes, time to get moving. Fix yourself up and I'll get you some coffee."

"Yeah, yeah, coming. You'd make a bitch of a wife," he grumbled. Sledge shot his legs over the edge of the top bunk, slid his bottom off, and he landed with bent knees.

Bobby woke with Gleason's throw over his arms. His left hand was thumping and he had to pee. He rolled off the bed, sat on the edge, took two pain pills and one of the others, and went to the dresser for the business card Dr. Creighton had given him last night. Bobby picked up the phone and dialed. "I need to know how Gleason Wintermantle is. Yes, I'll wait." Bobby said a silent prayer as he waited for the desk nurse to get Gleason's nurse. "Yes, how is she?"

The nurse replied, "She came out of recovery at four eighteen a.m. and came directly to ICU; she had a quiet night, and is resting comfortably. She has a slight temp, and we're watching it closely."

"Ok. When would be a good time to visit her?"

"Visiting hours are around the clock in ICU; however, only one person can visit at a time and for only ten minutes. I'd wait till this afternoon before you come in."

"Thanks." Bobby hung up and rubbed his face with his right hand. Thank you, thank you, thank you, he prayed. He stood and walked into the bathroom and saw the seat down. Gleason.

Damn, he thought, fooling with his zipper; Bobby was a total left-hander. He started to hop in place in front of the toilet. Come on, he growled to himself. Finally, the zipper moved and he was able to take care of business. Ah, he uttered.

Bobby reached behind the shower curtain and turned on the water. How am I going to do this, he thought. I can't get this wet.

With his pants still open, holding them up with his right hand, he walked into the kitchen and found two plastic grocery bags, a rubber band and the roll of duct tape he kept in his toolbox at the bottom of the coat closet. He returned to the bedroom, still clutching up his jeans, and dropped everything on his bed. He pulled off the black tee shirt and threw it on the chair in the corner.

Bobby put his left hand into one bag and pulled the second one over it. He folded the ends of the bags tight against his skin, picked up the rubber band and worked to slip it over the bulge of the cast and bandage. He picked up the roll of duct tape and pulled loose a long strip with his teeth. He repositioned the tape between his teeth and ripped the strip from the roll. Carefully, he wrapped the strip of tape over the end of the bags, sealing it to his wrist. There, he thought, that should do it.

He stepped out of his jeans, pulled down his boxers with his right hand and stepped out of them. Then he stepped on the toe of his sock, pulled out his foot, and did the same with the other foot. Bobby bent and picked up the clothes from the floor and tossed them on the chair in the corner. He walked naked to the bathroom.

Eames knew she was a mess before she opened her eyes. Her face felt swollen, her nose a stuffy mess. She dreaded seeing herself. Worse than how she looked, however, her chest was a hollow casket. Her heart had been ripped out and she couldn't breathe.

Alex threw back the covers and stood up, turned and straightened the sheets and spread as she usually did – a habit from childhood. She walked to the bathroom and looked at herself. Oh, my, God, she said to herself, you look like you've been attacked by a swarm of bees. It was true, her eyes were so puffy, it looked like she'd had a bad reaction to something. The skin above and below them looked like it was full of water. It was thin, shiny and tight. Her cheeks were puffy and her nose was disgusting. I need to stay home today, she thought, I can't be seen like this. And I really don't want to see Bobby.

She stripped off her sleep shirt and panties and turned on the water in the shower. Stay home, she told herself, just stay home today; but I need to see Deakins. She thought again about her decision, about what she planned to say to the boss. Bobby will never be able to forgive me for siding with Sledge, she thought, not for convincing him to not pick up Elliott, the man who'd put three bullets in his lover's back, nearly killing her. Eames let the water run and went to the phone and looked up the number for Methodist General.

Sledge walked to his desk looking like a man dead three days. He had tried to clean up in the men's room. Some people can make it work in a sink, Sledge need a crew.

"Boy, you sure do not clean up pretty," Bishop said to her partner.

"Shut up. Where's my coffee?"

Bishop indicated with her pen. "We've got a lot to do today. Do you have a plan?"

Sledge took a sip of his coffee and shut his eyes in splendor, "You would make a semi-bitch of a wife."

Deakins walked over to the pair and said to Bishop, "How'd it go last night? Any word on the professor?"

"I called this morning when I got up, she had a quiet night. She was in recovery when we left at about quarter to twelve." Bishop looked down at her desk and hesitated a moment, then added, "Everyone was pretty wiped out. The stress was really high last night."

Deakins looked at Bishop for a second, I'll bet it was ugly, he thought. Then he turned to Sledge, slumped back in his chair, "Were you here all night?"

Sledge nodded and took another sip.

"Why don't you go home, clean up, get something to eat and then come back. You look a wreck."

"Nope, I'm good; too much to do today. Huang was here last night. He's finished the profile on the caller. He left the narrative, I think . . ." Sledge set down his cup and started searching the mess on his desk, couldn't find it and said, "Well, maybe not. He said he'd be over sometime this morning to give us his thoughts on this guy. Said he wanted to talk to all of us together."

"Speaking of all of us, where are Goren and Eames?" Deakins asked. Just at that moment, Eames came around the corner from the elevator, hair hanging down around her face.

"Here's Alex now," said Bishop. Man, she's hiding a night of crying I bet, she thought.

"Morning," Alex said, not looking at anyone, as she rounded to her desk.

The other three just looked at her. "So, what's up for today?" she asked, not making eye contact.

"When's Super Man due in," Sledge asked Alex.

Alex stopped flipping papers on her desk, hesitated just a moment too long and then said, "I have no idea."

The others passed a look around the group and then dispersed.

Bobby showed up an hour later. He wore a blue sweater over dark blue cargo pants with loafers, carrying his black leather jacket. He was unshaven. "I couldn't manage the buttons on a dress shirt, and forget tying a tie," he explained to Bishop who saw him coming off the elevator.

"How's the hand?"

"It hurts, but the pills work."

"Where's your sling?"

Bobby just looked at her.

"Well, you should take some time off," Bishop suggested as they reached his desk.

"No, I'm better off here." He hung his jacket on the coat tree.

Bishop looked over at Eames who was doing something on her laptop. Good luck today, guys, she silently wished them and walked back to her desk.

Eames glanced up at him and said, "Morning." Bobby ignored her.

Deakins walked over and saw Bobby's hand, "Is that from the men's room wall?"

Bobby looked surprised and barely glanced over at his soon-to-be ex-partner, "Yeah, sorry about that. Take it out of my pay," he said with genuine contrition.

"That's what insurance is for. How bad is it?"

"My hand or the wall?"

Deakins smiled and said, "Your hand."

"Two broken knuckles and skin damage."

"How long are you going to be right handed?"

"The estimate is five to six weeks. I don't know how I'm going to manage, it took me forever to get ready this morning. I hope the sweater and pants are ok for a while."

"Don't give it a thought. What about your weapon?"

Bobby looked anguished. "I can't shoot right hand. I had a heck of a time getting it off my belt last night with my right hand."

"Where is it now?"

"At home."

"You know what this means, don't you?"

Bobby looked his boss in the eye, knowing what was coming.


	43. Chapter 43

Rune Alignment

Chapter 43

Huang rounded the corner from the elevators.

"We'll talk about this later," Deakins said to Bobby.

"Dr. Huang, what have you got for us?"

The two men shook hands and turned toward the conference room. Deakins turned back and said to the pair, "Get Bishop and Sledge and meet in the conference room in ten minutes."

Eames stood up and walked over to their colleagues. Bobby sat and leaned back, thinking, I am not going to drive a desk for the next six weeks; I'm not doing it. Bobby saw his portfolio right where he had left it yesterday. He flipped it open and found his to-do list

have Jerry in Audio secure a redirect bypass feed from Gleason's home phone; disable outgoing service

all incoming calls go directly to Jerry for tracing, taping and analysis

contact Gleason's phone service for taped copies of her messages; see Carver re a warrant

have Martin in Audio copy messages from cell phone and service to disc

have Martin voiceprint each message from cell and service

have Louise in Transcription do her thing with disc

give Huang at SVU an audio copy and transcription of all messages

have Huang profile the caller

pull in-system voiceprints matching profile from Huang

have Martin compare caller voiceprints with others that match caller's profile

get numbers from home caller ID

locate call sites from home and cell; pay phones?

map the sites

determine the site chronology

compare distance and time between calls

find out Elliott, the student's, last name; in the system?

let me know everything

He read down the list and mentally checked off numbers one, two, four, five, six, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen and sixteen. He drew a mental line through number seventeen. Bobby reached for a pen and his huge fist couldn't pick it up. He tried again but the fingertips of his left hand weren't enough to grasp anything; he found that out this morning in the bathroom.

Eames, Bishop and Sledge walked back toward Bobby's desk. "Well, well, well, looks like the Heavy Weight Champion of the World is back. You took that wall out in, what, one round? But it took three swings, so I hear."

"Edward," Eames said sadly.

"Jesus, Sledge," Bishop muttered.

Bobby shut his eyes, his lips tightened and he didn't respond. He flipped shut his portfolio, lifted it with his right hand and walked toward the conference room.

"Gleason, Gleason open your eyes. I need to take your temperature. Gleason. Wake up." The nurse put her hand under Gleason's upper arm patted her gently. Gleason opened her eyes and the nurse held out the thermometer. "Open your mouth. That's it." She set the thermometer on Gleason's tongue and watched the digital readout climb. Ninety-two, -four, -nine, one hundred, one hundred-one, -two, -three, and it stopped. It's higher, the nurse thought.

"How are you feeling?" the nurse asked as she recorded Gleason's temperature.

She opened her eyes again and whispered, "Thirsty."

The nurse poured water into the plastic glass and situated the straw. "Here you are dear." Gleason tried to lift her head, the nurse slid her hand under Gleason's neck and tilted the cup and straw, "Now just a sip."

Gleason sipped. "Good?" the nurse asked. "Are you ready for some food? How about some gelatin?"

"What happened to me?" she whispered. She felt so weak.

"You had surgery last night," the nurse evaded.

"Why? What kind of surgery?"

The nurse looked at the lovely woman lying in the bed. "Honey, you were shot yesterday; a man opened fire on the second floor of Belzberg Hall. You had surgery to repair your wounds. You rest now; I'll go get you some good cool gelatin."

The nurse left and Gleason drifted off to sleep.

Everyone gathered around the table in the conference room, and Sledge went to retrieve extra chairs. Huang looked at each of the detectives around the table. He noticed how Eames was keeping her head low, seeming to read something. She'd not yet made eye contact with him. Bishop was her usual open self, waiting expectantly. Then he looked at Bobby.

"Detective, I hope the other guy is still alive," Huang said smiling and nodding to Bobby's hand.

"Yeah, well I got the worst of it. And it was a wall, not a person."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, you should set him up with some anger management classes, Doc." Sledge said, pulling out a chair for Deakins.

Bobby closed his eyes and rubbed his right hand across them, ignoring Sledge. Jesus Christ, he doesn't stop, Bobby said to himself.

"Well, I've listened to the messages and have come to some conclusions about the caller. He is probably late thirties to late forties, white, educated. It was hard to tell, but I think he has an accent, English or Australian."

"You could hear that? The guys in audio couldn't hear it until they saw it on the voiceprint," Bishop asked incredulously.

"I know what to listen for; it helps." Dr. Huang smiled.

Bobby tried to write with his right hand, he couldn't even hold the pencil and threw it across the table, in frustration. Sledge ducked, "Ha! You can't throw right-handed either." Bobby shot him a dark look and slouched back in his chair, his wounded hand in his lap, right hand flicking the bottom edge of the tablet in his portfolio.

"Knock it off, will you?" Deakins asked with exasperation, and then to Huang, "Sorry, forgive this clown. Go on Doctor."

"His libido is out of control. This man knows the professor, he's no stranger. He could have stalked her in the past and is now acting on his desires, but I think he's been more intimate than that. He may be a former co-worker, lover even.

Bobby sat up and watched the psychiatrist as he described what might be a big part of Gleason's past.

"He associates sex with this woman. Every time he thinks of her, he becomes aroused. His arousal makes him think of her, and he becomes more aroused. He's caught in this vicious cycle until he has to masturbate to orgasm to relieve his desire.

"The anger you hear in the messages, while he pleasures himself, comes from his frustration in not actually having her. He's in pursuit of her; his desire for her is so great, nearly out of control. He calls her to try to talk with her. He plans to masturbate while he talks with her; but, when he gets her machine, he goes wild with frustration and he reverts to the horrible threats. He wants to punish her for not being available to him.

"He's a sexual deviant, likes to be in control, he dominates his partner and probably inflicts pain. He's into mind control; he threatens her into silence."

"What kind of pain would he inflict? Physical or mental?" Bobby asked.

"Both. The physical pain would be intense."

"During sex or after?"

Huang looked at the detective, where is he going with this, he wondered. "The sex would be degrading, humiliating to his partner. He would not, or could not, bring his partner to climax. Many deviants of this sort inflict some kind of physical pain afterward, substituting the pain for his partner's orgasm ."

"What kind of pain, though?" Bobby insisted.

"Detective, I'm not sure I understand what you are asking. The pain would be intense, real."

"Would he mark her, scar her in some way?" Bobby's mind was racing, oh, God, it's Clive, not Elliott.

"Goren, what are you getting at?" Deakins asked.

Bobby ignored his boss, "Would he? Would he mark her?" Bobby sat forward.

"Over here," Bobby shouted, "I've found it."

Gleason walked to where he stood and looked. "What?" she asked.

"Here. See it? It's right there," he looked into her eyes. "Here."

"Bobby, I don't know . . ."

"Come on." She watched Bobby walk off.

"It's right here. Look. Gleason, you're looking right at it. Don't you see it?"

Gleason stared, searched, swept her eyes everywhere. She saw snowy city streets, the empty sidewalks dirty with litter tossing along the gutters. An empty lot lay ahead and to the right, encircled with rusty chain link fencing, dirty snow piled up against it. The stink of decay drifted from the overturned trash bin, rotted food, crumpled papers and a dead animal lay strewn around. The sky above darkened and thunder rumbled somewhere, announcing the coming end. Lightning flashed overhead, making snowflakes sparkle.

Bobby stood and watched her, then he turned and started to walk away, "It's been right in front of you, each of these few days. You won't let yourself see it. You never will. And now it's too late." The snow fell hader.

Gleason stirred in her sleep, cold, so cold; she shivered, and started to gasp. Canna, canna brea . . . and then she convulsed.


	44. Chapter 44

Rune Alignment

Chapter 44.

"Do you mean like with a tattoo?" asked Huang.

Bobby hesitated, he didn't want to reveal too much too early. His faith in the other three had been shaken; it killed him to think he couldn't trust them, but he knew he couldn't, not anymore.

Bobby swallowed and, using only his right hand, said, "Would, would this guy cut her, burn her . . . like a brand of some sort? Leave some sort of permanent mark, to identify her as his property, perhaps?"

Huang thought a minute, "It's entirely possible and more than probable that he would mark her as his property. But the kind of infliction you describe would be a one time thing, wouldn't it? These kinds of deviants continue to inflict pain over time."

Bobby thought and said, almost to himself, "He might do it over time. If what he was inflicting was elaborate."

"Get this woman cooled down! Jesus, who was watching her temp?" the nurse exploded as Gleason continued to convulse in her fever.

Someone slapped a temperature tape across her forehead and plugged the end into the digital stat board on the pole attached to her bed. Others scrambled and hauled in three, four-foot long flexible plastic cylinders filled with cooling fluid.

"Ready? Roll her, let's go!" Two nurses pulled Gleason up onto her right side as two others shoved a cylinder under her from the left. They rolled her back onto her back. Still she convulsed.

"Get those up close to her. Move her arms; then hold her for God's sake! Come on, you've done this before. Do it!" Two men placed a cylinder on each side, lifting and placing her arms along the outside edge.

"Here, help me with this," the nurse said. The men turned and helped her with the cooling sheet. They lifted the cooling fluid filled, tube lined plastic sheet and carefully laid it on Gleason's body. The four stood, eyes glued to the digital read out on the stat screen. They watched her temp fall from its one hundred-six high; it fell slowly, but steadily. Finally, the convulsions stopped, her temp was one hundred-one. Everyone exhaled at the same moment. Then the monitor beeped rapid fire, her heart rate was falling as well.

"He would mark her in some way," Huang replied, "perhaps with cigarette burns, small, deep cuts. These wounds would be hidden on her body. He would want to keep them inconspicuous for two reasons – he'd not want them to be seen and then raise questions leading to his apprehension; and, he'd want them to be a secret connection between him and his victim, a private, personal connection. Seeing the marks would arouse him."

Deakins added, "We need to determine that the shooter – the student, Elliott Baughman – and the caller are the same person. Then we can close this case."

"I don't have any information on this student. Without that, I can't tell. You tell me, from what you know of the student, how does he match up with the caller's profile?"

"There are similarities," Bishop offered, "he's Welsh, so that may be the accent. And, he has priors in Wales that might correlate with this kind of behavior."

"Like what?" Huang asked.

Bishop flipped through papers in a folder, found the Interpol police report, and read from it, "At age eight, he molested two young girls; he has charges for exposure, arson, cruelty to animals; and that's just his juvenile sheet."

"Those types of offenses in a child, especially in combination, are markers for future sexual deviance." Huang explained, and continued. "The molestation indicates a twisted interest in sex. He was probably abused himself; or, at the least, he frequently observed adults having sex, perhaps aberrant sex. The exposure incidents would likely be a result of this as well. The cruelty to animals was the beginning of his inflicting of pain. He probably found the infliction, or the animal's response to it, sexually stimulating. Fires have a direct link to sexual proclivity. What about his adult priors?"

Bishop read on, "The same kind of charges – arson, public lewdness, assault and stalking. The caller was stalking the professor using the phone; Goren and she ran into the student at the market. She said he was making a pest of himself, right Bobby? "

He nodded.

Bishop continued, "Sledge found out that the calls came from a car side pay phone; so he was exposing himself and conducting public lewdness as he masturbated while he left the messages. Sounds like a match to me."

Everyone processed this for a minute. Then Sledge asked, "Is it possible there could be two individuals?"

Bobby's eyes moved back to Sledge.

Deakins thought a moment and then interjected, "Sledge asked Carver to issue a gag order preventing the disclosure of the victim's names to the media; thinking that if the caller thought the professor was, uh . . ."

Deakins shot a look at Bobby. Bobby looked down at the table, tracing a design on his notebook with the middle finger of right hand.

". . . – wounded or dead, he'd stop calling, disappear, and we'd lose him completely. We've been operating on the assumption that this student, Elliott Baughman, the shooter, was the caller. All the evidence points that way. Sledge thinks otherwise. Could there be two people?"

"Man, have you read the psych profile on that caller we did over the weekend?" Jerry said to Martin as he walked toward the other man. "He's one sick bastard."

"What could possibly make someone turn out like that? Is someone like this born or made?" Martin replied.

"I don't know. Does this sound like anyone we've got prints on?"

"I was just going to download the profile and search for matches."

Martin sat at his computer and typed in the address for Huang's department and then Huang's public file – public within the secure, inter-agency network. He watched the bar fill the as the document downloaded. Jerry watched as Martin saved it and then began a list of key words.

"Let's see, let's include 'masturbate,' 'sexual deviance,' 'stalking,' 'pain,' and 'humiliation.' Let's see what that gets us."

"What about words like, 'anger,' or 'frustration,' or 'threats'?" Jerry asked.

"This program can only search five key words at a time. We'll see what turns up and then use those words for a second search." Martin said as he typed and then hit 'enter."

The technicians watched the search bar zip back and forth with the speed of lightning. Several seconds later, the message, 'No matches found' popped up.

"Ok, let's try those other words," Martin typed in the three words Jerry had suggested, hit enter and they watched the search bar again. 'No matches found.'

"Darn," said Jerry. "Now what?" He looked at Martin who sat deep in thought. "What are you thinking?"

"There is something familiar about this – the print and narrative together makes me think there's been something like it before."

"But nothing showed up as a match."

"I know, but what about old stuff? Old prints and narratives that were never entered into the system? I remember looking at something like this when I interned years ago." He thought again for a minute, and then said, "Yeah, I'm sure of it." And he stood up.

"What're you going to do?" asked Jerry.

"I'll be in the catacombs for a while if anyone's looking for me."

Martin headed down the hallway to the elevators. He was going to search the basement storage areas where boxes of old evidence, cold case files, old documents waiting for transference to microfiche, and old voiceprints and their narratives were stored.

"Anything is possible, Captain. What makes you think there may be two individuals, Detective?" Huang asked.

Edward sat up, leaned forward, arms on the table, "I can't really say. I just have a feeling that the caller knows the professor from before. As far as we know, the student just met her last year. The caller sounds older, more mature. A younger person would be more likely to do something impulsive like opening fire, wouldn't he, Doc?"

"I'm not sure about the motivation for that kind of impulsive act. But you are correct in thinking a younger person would be more likely to use gunfire in this way. The age range for this kind of mass killing is generally early- to mid-teens to late twenties. How old was the student?"

"Thirty-two, according to the information he gave the INS," Bishop offered.

"Well, that's a little old for this kind of act. However, if he was immature, he might have the social development of a much younger individual." Huang thought a moment and then added, "It is possible that the caller is still out there.

"I hope you catch this guy soon, he could be a nasty one. Let me know if there's anything else I can help you with."

"Thank you Doctor. We'll probably be in touch sooner rather than later." Dr. Huang stood, gathered up his few pieces of paper, handed a clipped sheaf to Deakins and they shook hands. He nodded a goodbye to the others and left.

Deakins looked at Bobby – his detective was a million miles away. Later, he thought.

"So what do we know? Sledge what have you got?"

Dr. Patel and Dr. Creighton spoke outside Gleason's cubical in the ICU. "She's got infection somewhere," Creighton said, "I hope to God it's not staph. What do you think is going on with her heart rate?"

"I don't know." Dr. Patel replied. "The suture line may be leaking around the artery patch. It may be a result of the infection or the convulsion; could be anything. Let's start her on a course of atenolol and see what she does. How's her temp holding?"

Creighton checked the clipboard, "Last two reads say one hundred-two. That's not good. Should we start her on amikacin as well, try to knock down whatever's inside?"

Patel thought a minute and said, "She's alive when she shouldn't be, let's do it; it may keep her going."

"I wanted to ask you about those marks on her back. What do you make of them?"

"It is most unusual. It could be some kind of tribal markings, a cult of some kind. What do you think?"

Creighton thought a moment, then offered, "She doesn't seem the type for that; although, I don't know what that _type_ is. The design is Celtic. They're acid burns. Not all of them are the same age; that design took years to complete. Why would anyone let that be done to themselves? The pain – I can only imagine."

"It didn't look to me that the wounds that caused those scars had any medical treatment. It's a wonder she didn't develop an infection. Maybe we can ask her about it when she's well enough."

"Do you think she'll actually talk about it?"

They walked away without speaking.


	45. Chapter 45

Rune Alignment

Chapter 45

Edward sat up, cleared his throat and began, "Well, the warrant for the copy of Wintermantle's home phone messages is ready at Carver's office. I thought I'd run over, get it and take it to the phone company. I was going to do that yesterday, but . . . we were otherwise engaged."

"Send a uniformed to do it. You've got other things to do here." Deakins said. "What else?"

"The results on the envelope that was slipped under her door are back from trace."

Bobby shifted his gaze back to Sledge.

Sledge flipped some papers and said, "The envelope had no prints whatsoever. The guy must have worn gloves. The adhesive was dampened with a wet cloth, not saliva. A fraction of a single fiber was found on the glue. It has no unique properties, simple plain cotton typically used in the manufacture of underwear, tee shirts, and jersey knit bed sheets, no dyes, and no finishes. Could be from any white rag, anywhere. The paper inside was blank, no writing, no drawings, no pasted pictures or cut out words. Nothing, nada, zilch. A blank piece of paper. It, too, bore no prints. Both the paper and envelope are unremarkable. Standard issue office supply."

"Why would someone deliver a blank sheet of paper?" Bishop asked.

"To show that he could get to her. Get into her locked building. Get up to her door. Show her she wasn't safe." Bobby answered steadily.

"But you got in easily enough. You said it yourself, anyone could get in." Sledge offered.

"What's your point?" Bobby asked with a tense edge.

"Nothing, man, I'm just saying. Why is it a big deal that the guy got in? Anyone can get in, right?"

"It's a big deal because this guy wants to hurt her. He's hurt her in the past and wants to do it again."

They all looked at Bobby. Seconds ticked by. Finally, Deakins asked, "What do you mean he's hurt her before? The professor knows this guy? How has he hurt her? What were you talking about a minute ago, with Huang? Goren, what do you know that you're not telling us?"

Bobby sat back in his chair and shook his head. "Goren?"

He shook his head and waved his right hand, shooing away the question.

Deakins sighed and said to Sledge, "What else do you have?"

"We need to get the student's local address. We need to search his place, find out why he did this."

"I'll take care of that," Bishop offered. "I'll dig further at the university and other resources to get his address. Then I'll call Carver's office for the warrant. It will probably be tomorrow before we can move on his place."

"We have to find his place first. I was thinking about her hand bag." Bobby's eyes slid back to Edward. "Her bag hasn't shown up yet. I'm thinking she had it with her; women are usually not far from it when they go out. Her secretary doesn't remember seeing it. I'm thinking it's either still in her office or somewhere in the hallway. It might have some information in it that will be helpful."

"Well, it's probably in the hallway. She was on her way out when she was – when everything happened." Bishop offered and shot a quick glance at Bobby. Everyone was being so delicate with him in the room.

"Belzberg is buttoned up and taped. I thought I'd head over with a uniform and look for her bag. I think we need it." Sledge suggested. He wanted to ask Bobby what it looked like, but he was afraid to say anything to Goren. It would help to know what we're looking for, he thought, but the guy's on the edge as it is. Let it go and do some detective work.

"Brief the uniform and send him. We need you here." Deakins said.

"Anything else? Eames, you've been awfully quiet, you have anything?"

Alex shook her head, barely looked up and said softly, "No. I have nothing."

"I have one more thing," Sledge offered. Everyone looked and waited. "I was, uh, wondering why the professor was at the university yesterday when she said she'd be out for several days." Bobby looked back to Sledge. "I talked with the professor's graduate assistant and secretary yesterday afternoon." Bobby leaned forward on the edge of the table. Sledge kept looking over at him, expecting some reaction. "Her secretary said the professor had called in and asked if anyone could bring her laptop to her; that she wasn't able to leave where she was. She wanted to continue working on her book. No one was free to do it. So, uh, she, uh, took a cab and went to get it herself. She was on her way out of the office when the shooting started."

Bobby stared at Sledge. Everyone saw his breathing deepen. Then he reached up and squeezed his eyes with his right hand. He shook his head, sniffed, picked up his portfolio, stood and walked out.

Everyone exhaled a collective breath.

"Ok, thanks Edward, you've done a lot of good work. Thanks."

Eames stalled until the others left and then walked to Deakins' office. She stepped through the open door and asked, "Do you have a minute?"

This is it, Deakins thought to himself. "Sure, come in and close the door."

Bobby stood at his desk, thinking, she took a cab. She wanted to work on her book. She wanted her laptop. She swore she wouldn't leave. I should have thought to get her laptop on Saturday or Sunday. Jesus, she was there because I didn't think to do that one stupid little thing. I put her there.

"Excuse me, detective."

Bobby spun around. Louise from transcription stood holding a file folder. "Sorry this is late; I had to keep taking a break, listening to that boy go at himself like that! Child, he must have rubbed himself to nothing." Louise was colorful. "Anyway, I caught every word I could make out. Found myself transcribing all his oohs, ahhhs, and grunts. I needed a cigarette after each ninety second message; and I don't smoke, mind you."

"Thank you Louise. I'm sorry you had to hear that. I know it was terrible to listen to. Thanks, though," Bobby said sincerely.

Louise looked at the strapping hunk of man and then at his hand, "You do that over a woman?"

Bobby looked at the floor and then at her. He could say nothing.

She saw the pain in his eyes. "I'm sorry, detective. Whatever it is, it works out the way He wants it to," she pointed upward. She looked at him, this man is a good, good man; she's lucky whoever she is. Louise put a hand on Bobby's arm, turned and headed back toward the elevators.

"Sit down," Deakins indicated to one of the two guest chairs in front of his desk. Alex sat in one and Deakins turned the other to face hers, then sat. He looked at the tiny detective and waited for it.

"I'd like to request a new partner," Eames said to Deakins.

Deakins knew this was coming. He'd thought about it ever since the shooting. "Have you spoken to Bobby about this?"

"He won't even acknowledge that I'm in the room."

"Detective, this is a serious request. You and Bobby are two of my best detectives. You are in synch; you work like a single unit. You've been together, what, five years?"

"Almost seven."

"Alex, I'm not sure I can find anyone to partner with him. You know how he is." Silence. Then, "I'm not sure I can do this, Alex. I'm sorry."

"So you're going to deny my request because it's what's best for you and for him?"

"Alex, that isn't what I said . . ."

"Yes, it is. Listen to yourself – 'can't find anyone,' 'you know how he is.' You're only concern here is what's best for Bobby. This isn't about him, this is about me and what is best for me."

"Alex," Deakins looked like Bobby sometimes did, anguished.

"I cannot work with him. He doesn't want me as a partner anymore. He thinks he can't trust me . . . and, and – he may be right. It's broken between us. We'd be no good together anymore. We'd second-guess each other at every step. Do this for me."

Deakins and Eames stared at each other and said nothing; there was nothing left to say.

Eames broke the silence, she looked at her boss and said, "Then I request a transfer out."

"Aw, Alex, come on. You don't mean that."

"Yes, sir, I do. I can no longer work with Goren. If that can't change, then I can no longer work here. I'll submit my formal request this afternoon." Eames walked back to her desk.


	46. Chapter 46

Rune Alignment

Chapter 46

A uniformed officer stood at Sledge's desk, the same young man Sledge had asked to take Bobby's backpack to him at the hospital the day before. "Yeah, thanks for coming over. I need you to do two things for me. First, go over to Carver's office, get the warrant for the phone company, and deliver it. Find out from them when the copy of the messages will be ready. The warrant states they be delivered on disc. Mention that to them, it will save time on our end."

"No problem. What else?"

"I need you to go over to the university, back to Belzberg. I need the professor's handbag. It's got to be either in her office or still in the hallway."

"What does it look like?"

"I don't know! Bring back any handbags you find."

"Do you want backpacks, brief cases?"

Sledge thought a moment, "No, she strikes me as a big, floppy, classy shoulder bag kind of lady. I could be wrong, but just bring any purses you find."

"OK, that it?"

"Belzberg is still locked and taped. Take someone with you when you go in. I don't want any questions about anything later on. Try to be quick."

Bishop sat at her desk and ran 'Baughman, Elliott T.' through the department's utility search directory and got the 'No matches found' message. Damn, she thought, his building is utilities included. She thought a minute and then ran a search for 'apartments/utilities included.' A message came back asking, 'geographic parameters.' She added '/university area' and hit 'enter.' On hundred seventy-four addresses appeared in an alphabetic list by street name. A hundred seventy-four! Jeeze, she thought, trim this list – how? She saved the list in a file named 'Elliott T. Baughman.'

After delivering the warrant to the phone company, the young officer and his partner parked on Selman, beside Belzberg Hall, and headed for the administration building to get Belzberg opened up. They carried a role of yellow crime scene tape with them to re-tape the building when they were finished looking for the handbag. The pair waited while the secretary made several phone calls and finally said, "Sullivan will meet you over there. He'll open up for you." They walked back toward Belzberg in silence.

A man in a maintenance gray shirt and pants stood in front of the glass doors on the small landing at the top of the entrance steps. "I didn't want to open it without you here," he said.

"Thanks, that was the right thing to do," the young officer said. He pulled back the strips of crime scene tape and the maintenance man unlocked the doors.

"I'll wait here, if that's ok."

"That would be best," the officer's partner said. They entered, crossed the small lobby and walked to the dark second floor. The only light came from the tall windows behind them and at the opposite end of the hall. It was enough to see that books, notebooks, backpacks and other things still littered the hall.

"We're looking for a handbag?" his partner asked. "What kind of handbag? What does it look like?"

"The detective said to bring any we find. He suspects it is a floppy shoulder bag." They both took flashlights from their belts and started searching.

"Hey, what about this?" The other officer bent and picked up a cloth purse with a long handle and lots of key chain ornaments attached. He held it up for his partner to see.

"Yeah, I guess. Hang onto it and keep looking. Pick up anything that looks like a purse."

Eames sat at her desk, typing her letter of request for transfer. She could barely see the screen through the well of tears in her eyes. Don't let them fall, she told herself. Do not!

Bobby sat across from her, his right hand fiddling in his right pocket, fishing for something. He pulled out his watch, looked at it – eleven twenty-four – and stuffed it back inside. He picked up the phone and dialed the ICU nurses' desk from memory.

"Hi, I need information on Gleason Wintermantle, please. Yes, I'll wait."

Eames' hands shook as she typed, she couldn't find the right words, the right order, she kept making typos and kept backspacing over what she'd written, starting again. Her hair fell down around her face, hiding it. Finally, her eyes spilled over and tears fell to her lap. Damn! she shouted to herself. Do not cry, not with him right there. Without thinking, she sniffed.

"Yes, how is she doing?" Bobby listened. "When did this happen?" Eames stopped typing at the change in his voice. "How is she now?" She looked over at him. "Is she going to be all right?" His right hand held the phone; he looked down at the top of his desk, his left elbow sat on the desk with his fist upright, as though it hurt. "Well, can I see her?" I caused him this, she thought. "Alright, thank you. Yes, that's the number. Yes, alright." He held the phone and knocked the back of his right hand against his forehead several times, then hung it up.

Eames dared, "How is she?"

Bobby stood and walked toward Deakins' office. Eames watched him walk away. Suddenly all the words came to her in the right order and she completed her transfer request.

"Bobby, come in. I wanted to speak to you any –

"I want a new partner," Bobby said flatly.

Oh, man, thought Deakins. "Close the door and sit down," he said with resignation. "Tell me why."

Bobby sat and slouched back, his left hand in his lap. "You know why."

"No, I don't think I do. Why do you think this is a good thing?"

Bobby looked miserable; he shifted in the chair. His right hand came up, fingers bent over, his head leaned to his left side, his eyes closed, and his lips pressed together. He was searching for what to say, how to explain. "I . . . can't trust her anymore," he said simply.

"Have you talked to Alex about this?" Deakins knew they hadn't, but he wanted to hear Bobby's take on the whole thing.

Bobby hesitated and said softly, "I, I don't even want to look at her."

"You know what you're giving up here, don't you? You two have been together almost seven years. You two have the best arrest and conviction record – you are my best team.

"You are more than partners, Bobby, you two are friends; good friends. How many times has Alex been there when your mom was so bad? After your dad died? She's your friend, Bobby; you don't do this to your friend."

Deakins could see Bobby getting mad, his anger building; it was like watching the needle rise on a boiler.

"She made one bad call, Bobby."

"Is that what you call it?" he exploded, on his feet, loud. "A bad call? Jesus Christ, that 'bad call' nearly killed the best thing I've ever had in my life. Gleason survived surgery and they don't know why. Right now, she's got a fever they can't get down, she's convulsed and her heart rate is erratic. She may die anyway."

He took a few steps in a small box and started again, "What about all those other people? One dead, twelve injured? What about them? Their families? Eames made a decision – that 'bad call' as you say – based on something other than her judgment as a cop. She sided with Sledge rather than me because it was important to her for whatever reason. I can't trust that kind of thinking." Bobby looked spent. He rubbed his forehead and eyes with his right hand. He paced in a small circle, looking at the floor.

Deakins didn't know what to say. So he told Bobby the whole truth, "Eames asked for a new partner earlier today."

Bobby stopped and looked at Deakins, "Good, then it's mutual, it should be easy and quick to process."

"I'm going to tell you what I told her. No."

"Then I want to transfer out," said Bobby.

"She said the same thing."

"Detective, these are what we found," the young officer said as he and his partner arrived at Sledge's desk. They carried a shopping bag of purses, wallets, and a fanny pack.

Sledge looked up, "Hey great, you guys are great. Whatcha got? Let's have a look." He stood and removed a cloth bag with long handles and a bunch of keychain ornaments. "You guys go through any of these?"

"No, sir. You said to find them and bring them in," the young officer said.

"Well, now's our chance to really see what ladies have stashed away in these things." Sledge took the shopping bag and upended it on his desktop. An assortment of purses and wallets formed a mound. He shifted through and pulled out a large, brown, leather shoulder bag. "Ah, this looks like it might be our lady's."

Bobby stormed out of Deakins office, strode to his desk and flipped shut his portfolio, preparing to leave. He happened to glance over at the two officers standing by Sledge's desk. He saw Sledge lift Gleason's bag from a pile. What the fu-, he muttered to himself. He let his portfolio fall back onto his desk and he closed the distance to Sledge's desk in four strides.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Bobby said as he snatched the leather bag from Sledge's hand. The officers tensed up as they had yesterday at the hospital.

Sledge jumped back in his chair and said, "Nothing, nothing, man! I asked these guys to go find her purse so we could maybe get some information from it. I thought you were still in with Deakins. Jeeze, lighten up."


	47. Chapter 47

Rune Alignment

Chapter 47.

Bobby was breathing heavily as he turned with the bag and headed for an interview room. He shut the door, set the bag on the table and pulled out a chair. He sat looking at Gleason's bag. He rubbed the fingertips of his left hand over the worn leather. He ran his right hand under the shoulder strap, feeling the ridges and wrinkles in the leather.

He wanted to look inside, try to find something that would tell him Clive's last name. He made a mental note to get her original cell phone from Jerry. Maybe Clive's information was in there. He wanted to look inside; wanted to see the side of women men are never privy to. The secret life of a woman is found in her handbag.

But he couldn't. Ever since he was a boy, a woman's purse was a mystery, a secret chamber. He remembered watching his father hand his mother her purse when he wanted something from it, money or cigarettes. Even when they were warring, or his mother was out of it, his dad would not go into her purse. Once Bobby saw his older brother, Richie, go into their mother's purse and take out her wallet. Bobby was shocked when Richie opened it and took out two twenty dollar bills. His disgust for his brother started in earnest that day. He was seven, his brother was twelve.

Here he was, with the holy grail of his love's life.

Bobby clumsily pulled open the zipper and laid the purse on its side. He carefully reached inside and, as if he were removing a chalice from the tabernacle, Bobby slid out Gleason's envelope-sized wallet. He'd never seen it. It was old, well-worn brown leather, like her bag, and zipped on three sides. He lifted it and tried to unzip it. He ended up holding it flat with his bandaged left hand and unzipping it. Two pockets were separated by a zippered coin section. Zippers, sheesh, he thought. Card slots lined the two sides in front of another pocket, most of them empty.

Reverently, he removed a card, her driver's license. Five nine, one thirty-five, red hair, blue eyes, eleven twenty-three Murdock, April second nineteen sixty-three, A positive, organ donor, her social security number. So much he didn't know, right there, on that small card.

He removed an American Express card, the only credit card. Her insurance cards, a public library card. Seventeen dollars and twenty-three cents. A receipt for a cup of tea and a brownie from the Coffee Joint on campus. No photos.

Bobby found her passport in the pocket behind the card slots. Germany, Italy, US, Taiwan, Russia, New Zealand . . . ? She had traveled far more widely than they had talked about.

He replaced everything but her insurance cards; he slipped those into his right front pocket. He set the wallet aside and reached back into her treasure chest.

Martin searched up and down the rows until he found the section holding boxes of old voice prints and their narratives. It looked like ten foot sections of four shelves held what he was looking for.

Let's see, he said to himself, I interned here in nineteen ninety-five and ninety-six. He searched for where the boxes with dates of ninety-six and earlier were assembled. Ah, he said, here we go. Martin removed the first box and carried it to the counter that ran the length of the room. He pulled out a stool, opened the box, and removed the first manila envelope.

He unclasped the envelope and slid out the voice print strips and the clipped pages of narrative. He began to read.

The nurse checked the bags of atenolol and amikacin hanging from the pole attached to the drip monitor beside Gleason's bed. Then she checked the infusion site on the back of Gleason's hand. The nurse recorded the numbers as they blinked on the monitor screen. BP one hundred-one over eighty-nine; temp one hundred-two Fahrenheit, thirty-eight Celsius; pulse forty-eight to fifty-seven bpm, erratic; oxygen level eighty-six; this is one sick lady, the nurse said to herself.

"How is she?" Dr. Patel asked as he came around Gleason's bed.

"Everything's low except her temp, it's still high."

Patel reached for her chart and read.

"Has she been awake at all?" he asked.

"Just once this morning. She said she was thirsty, so I gave her a sip and she asked what had happened to her. I told her and she fell asleep as I was talking." The nurse straightened the sheet over her.

"Has anyone been in to see her?"

"Several people called this morning; one gentleman has called twice. He said he'd be in this afternoon."

"Oh, yes, it must be that detective who was here last night. Nice young man." The doctor handed the clipboard back to the nurse.

"If her numbers don't improve by six, Dr. Creighton wants to take her back to surgery." He looked at Gleason then left.

The nurse swabbed petroleum jelly on Gleason's cracked lips and wiped her face and neck with a cool cloth. Rest easy, pretty lady, she thought.

"Well, this system is not worth crap," Bishop said with exasperation.

Sledge looked up at his partner and said, "Like your lovers, huh? Can't satisfy you?"

Bishop ignored the remark and said, "This system is so old; it won't run any kind of sophisticated search. You put in more than three variables and it chokes. I'm going to go to the university and ask around if anyone knows where he lives."

"Wait, wait, that's a waste of time. Why don't you search using his national insurance number? He's had to register that somewhere." He watched as Bishop found the number in the folder and then type it in.

"Bingo! Sledge you are such a surprise. Why don't you work like this all the time?"

"Where's he live?"

"Eleven sixteen Murdock."

Eames read and re-read what she had written. Her heart pounded. I don't want to do this, I don't want to leave, she said to herself. She sat with her finger shaking over the button on her mouse, cursor pointing to the print icon.

I have to do this; I have no partner here. Bobby is never going to forgive me. Goddamn! I should never have slept with Sledge. I slept with him because I was jealous of Gleason. God, how stupid! I never should have hesitated; Bobby is always right on these things. No one has his instincts. I have to do this.

She hit the button.

Bobby reached into Gleason's purse again and removed a hair clip. He looked at it in his hand, large pointed teeth lined the sides of two, eight-inch curved combs held together with a spring; this is a vicious looking thing, he thought. He set it aside and reached in again.

He hand felt papers and he took them from the bag. A list written on the back of an empty envelope; fruit, muesli, yogurt, tissues, orange juice, dish soap. He'd never seen her handwriting. It was a mix of printing and cursive, tiny, neat. He slid his fingers over the writing.

A paper folded in half was a computer printout displaying a chart showing the names of airports and airlines, and departure times. The title at the top of the chart read, Standard Flight Departures. The date range ran from three months ago to two months from now. She's ready to run, he thought. She's so afraid of that monster.

He ran his hand around inside the bag and pulled out a small change purse. He unsnapped it and saw that it held bills – pound notes and euros. It was a lot of money.

He felt inside and removed a small hairbrush, frizzy with red hair. He put it to his nose and smelled cinnamon. His eyes welled.

Bishop located and phoned the owner of eleven sixteen Murdock to inquire about the specific apartment number of Elliott's apartment.

"From what I understand, he's not there much," the owner said. "What's he done? You looking for drugs? I'll tell you all them college kids are drugged out bums, never going to class, always high, not taking care of the place."

Bishop sat with her head resting on her left fist. "I can certainly understand how you feel, Mr. –," she checked her notes, "Bartowski. These kids today have no respect for anything. So, what is Baughman's apartment number?"

"Jeeze," he hesitated, "I got to tell ya, I'm not real sure. Most of the numbers been swiped at some point. Like you said, kids today got no respect for nothing."

"Mr. Bartowski, we need some kind of description to identify Baughman's apartment in order to issue the warrant. How are the apartments numbered?"

"Ok, you got me. There ain't never been no apartment numbers on none of them doors in that place. See, I figure the kids are gonna steal 'em anyways, so why bother, right?"

A small throb started right behind Bishop's left eye. "Mr. Bartowski," she said with a patience this man did not deserve, "is his apartment on the first floor or second floor? It's a two-story house, right?"

"Yep, that it is, a nice house, I gotta say. One of the better ones I own over that way. I got a nice settlement from workman's comp a few years ago, and –,"

"Mr. Bartowski, is Elliott Baughman's apartment on the first or second floor of the house at eleven sixteen Murdock? Tell me, please," Bishop was about to go off on this guy.

"Well, here's the thing, I'm not sure. When this Elliott fella rented it, the whole place was empty and I told him to take whichever one he liked and to pick up the right key from under the mat. I know that's not a very business-like thing to do, but I got me eighteen properties, that there's one hell of a lot of work. You wouldn't think so, but, let me tell you . . . what some people will do to stuff that's not their own." Eames could see him shaking his head on the other end of the line. He continued, "Like you said, ma'am, them kids today. . ."

Bishop knew she had to hang up before she banged the receiver on the edge of her desk with Bartowski still on the line, "Ok, Mr. Bartowski, you've been a tremendous help. Tell you what, I'm going to call the DA's office and see what they tell me about not having the exact address for this warrant. Chances are excellent that I'll need to speak with you again before too long. So, I'll reach you at this number if I need you, ok?"

"Yes, ma'am, you can call this number anytime, it's my cell phone number. I got rid of my regular phone, you know, the one at the house. Hell, I was never there and folks was always leavin' messages and then they get all pissy when I'd return their call and it was a little bit late in the evening. You know how some peop—," he heard a click and then nothing.

Bishop sat with her head in her hands, and mumbled to herself, "Jesus Christ Almighty." She picked up the phone again and dialed Carver's office.


	48. Chapter 48

Rune Alignment

Chapter 48.

"What's that?" Sledge asked as he came up on Eames at the computer printer. "I saw you standing here, like you were waiting for something to print; like you didn't want anyone to see what it is. So, what is it?"

Eames turned and looked up at Sledge. Her mind raced back to Saturday night and Sunday morning. It was wonderful, her time with him. She'd never had a date like that. He was so romantic, it was so unexpected; so different from what he was at work. The sex was over the top. "This is nothing," she said folding the paper.

Sure it is, he thought. "Let's go get some lunch; let's get out of here and get some air. Come on."

She thought a minute and then said, "Let me get my purse."

Sledge watched her walk to her desk. She's going to ask for a transfer, I bet. Deakins will never partner her with anyone else. That paper was her transfer request. "Ready?" he asked as she returned. It took all he had to not wrap his arm around her.

Martin finished reading the narratives, or parts of them, in the fifteen envelopes stored in the first box. He slid off the stool, returned the box and carried the next one back to the counter. Again, he lifted the lid, removed the first envelope, slid out the prints and clipped narrative and began to read.

Bobby swept his hand around the inside of Gleason's bag and felt one last item; he pulled out a pill bottle – Aventyl. He struggled to open the amber bottle; it was nearly empty. The refill date was more than a month ago. It had been filled at University Drugs.

He replaced the cap and set the bottle aside. He carefully returned the other items to her bag and tried to re-zip it, he couldn't get it to go, left it open and carried it back to his desk. He set her bag to the side and put the bottle beside it. He went to the bookcase holding his collection of reference books, pulled off the PDR, lugged it back to his desk and sat. He opened it to the index, flipped pages, ran his finger down a column, found what he wanted and turned to the page he was looking for.

'Aventyl (Canada, Ireland, Malaysia, South Africa, UK, US) – Brand name of nortriptyline, one of several types of tricyclic drugs indicated for the treatment of depression and migraine. Side effects include lowered blood pressure and heart rate, dry mouth, and other mild to severe reactions. Contraindicated for use with MAOIs. See page 117a. for illustration.'

Bobby closed the book, pushed it aside, picked up Gleason's bag and reached for his jacket. He slipped the pill bottle into the breast pocket, turned and headed for the elevators.

"How come you were so quiet in the meeting this morning?" Sledge asked Eames.

They were at a sandwich place not far from One Police Plaza. It catered to lawyers and cops. The crowd was coming and going; most of the trade was take away – cops and lawyers on the run, administrative assistants making a lunch run for bosses.

Eames finished chewing and then said, "I had nothing to offer."

"Come on, Sugar, what's going on?"

Eames looked at Edward, can I trust him? Tell him what I'm doing? Or, will he try to talk me out of it? He's all I've got right now. "If I tell you, promise me you won't get weird."

"Deakins will never approve your transfer." Sledge said and took a bite of his sandwich.

Eames was stunned. "How . . . how . . . how did you know?"

He swallowed, wiped his mouth, reached and took her hand, "I know how you think. I know everything about you. You didn't turn it in yet, did you?"

She shook her head and said, "But I told him."

"And he said no. Did you ask for a new partner first?"

"Yes."

"And he said no. Alex, he's not going to change you two. You and Goren are too good together. Besides, who in the hell would Deakins get to partner up with that oddball?"

Sledge let go of her hand, picked up his sandwich and took another bite.

"Edward, I can't work with Bobby any more. He doesn't want me as a partner either. It's over. I destroyed the trust we had; he can't trust my judgment anymore. I'm not sure I can trust myself." She looked down and thought a minute. Sledge let her talk. "It's my fault Gleason's where she is, how she is. He loves her. I almost destroyed the one he really loves. His 'one.' That can't be forgiven."

Edward looked at Alex and his heart rose with love for her and broke with her pain. He set down the rest of his sandwich, wiped his mouth again and said plaintively, "I was the one wrong, Alex. I made the initial decision not to go pick up Elliott. I honestly didn't think he was the caller. I still don't. I think there's someone else out there. But I set everything in motion with that decision. Goren already hates me, no news there. But I'm the reason that it's bad between you now." He stared into her eyes. "Tell me why you sided with me and not your partner."

"Jerry, it's Bobby," he said into his cell phone. He was sitting in the hospital parking lot. "Listen can you pull the contact list from Gleason's cell phone?"

Jerry replied, "It'll be on your desk by the end of shift. Hey, I heard she was hurt in that shooting yesterday. How is she?"

Bobby had to pause a minute before answering, "She's not good, Jerry. Thanks for asking and for getting that list for me. Talk with you later." He flipped shut his phone and walked toward the hospital entrance.

"Here you are! Man it's like a tomb down here," Jerry said to his friend. "How's it going?"

"I'm going to go blind. Jesus, you'd think they'd spring for some decent lights down here. I've only been through one and a half boxes." Martin swiped his hand over his face.

"How many are there?"

'From what I can tell, about two dozen."

"Sheesh! Ok, tell me what we're looking for." Jerry reached and lifted an envelope from the box.

"Years ago I remember the guys talking about the narrative and voiceprints of a guy who had been picked up for doing himself in a car parked across from the court house. He was a real wacko. They found something else in the car that implicated him in something; I don't remember what it was now.

"Anyway, they taped his interview, the guy was real agitated the whole time. Kept saying he had to finish his art, had to find 'her' to finish, it wasn't done, all that kind of thing. I remember the guys who interviewed him talking about how the wacko kept getting aroused and was rubbing himself right there in front of them, like he didn't know he was doing it. The thing is, the guy had an English accent."

Bobby looked on the directory board on the wall in the lobby, next to the bank of elevators; he found ICU. He pushed the up button on at the elevator bank, waited, entered and pushed seven. The doors opened and he followed the signs to the unit. He stood at the entrance, not knowing what to do.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Bobby turned around and a woman in a colorful scrub top smiled up at him. "Uh, I'm here to see Gleason Wintermantle."

"Just one moment please," she replied and stepped to a central desk. The woman entered something into a computer, waited and said, "I need to get the doctor before you can go in."

"Is she alright?" Bobby asked.

"It won't be a moment."

Bobby looked around. He couldn't tell which cubicle was Gleason's. Nurses walked in and out of cubicles, several sat at the central desk, writing or at computer terminals. He was excited and apprehensive at the same time. He couldn't wait to see her with his own eyes, see that she was ok. Still, he was afraid of what the doctor would tell him. She had been wrong last night, so had the other doctor, Dr. Patel. Gleason has to be getting better if she came through surgery when they were sure she wasn't.

"Detective, hope you weren't waiting long," Dr. Creighton said. Bobby spun and took her outstretched hand. "I'm glad you're here. Let's talk over here."


	49. Chapter 49

Rune Alignment

Chapter 49

"Does anyone know we're down here?" Martin asked his colleague.

"I mentioned to Zach that I was coming down here to see what you were up to," Jerry replied.

"Well, it's been almost four hours. I am famished. What say we get some lunch and then do a couple more boxes?"

"Sounds good to me. Can we leave this stuff here? Will someone mess with it?"

"Have you seen anyone since we've been down here? I think our stuff will be just fine. Come on." Martin slid the prints and narrative he had finished reading back into the envelope, stood and stretched. Jerry did the same.

"Man, my butt's sore."

"How's your hand today?" Dr. Creighton asked as she led Bobby to a tiny room off to the side. Bad news lives in these small rooms, Bobby thought.

He glanced at it and said, "It's ok."

"How's the pain?"

"The pills work."

"Where's your sling? You need to wear that, it keeps your hand from hanging down and prevents swelling. It will help with the pain as well. Do you have it with you?"

Bobby shook his head no.

"Then let me get you one. It's important that you wear it, understand?" The doctor spoke to a passing nurse, "Will you get me a two-X adult arm sling? Thanks, Julie." The doctor looked back at Bobby.

"How is she? Can I see her?" he asked.

"Yes, you can see her; I just want to let you know what's happening. Gleason has a temperature we cannot get down. As I told you this morning, her temperature spiked at one-oh-six and she convulsed. We were able to bring it down with cooling tubes and a cooling sheet. It stopped at one-oh-one, which is still high, and where it has stayed.

"Dr. Patel and I think there's probably infection at one of the sites. She's on an amikacin drip; it's a type of aminoglycoside, a powerful antibiotic to try to knock down the infection. We have to be careful with it, though; amikacin is toxic and may cause renal damage or hearing loss.

"After her temp came down and she stopped convulsing, her heart rate fell; it's been slow and erratic since then. Actually, her heart rate has not been good since surgery last night. We're not sure what's causing the bradycardia – the slow heart rate. It may be a leak in one of the suture lines, the infection, her weakened condition . . . any number, or combination of things. We have her on atenolol to try to stabilize her heart. If her numbers don't improve by this evening, I'm going to take her back into surgery to see what's going on inside."

Dr. Creighton looked up at the good-looking young man and saw worry and fright. "I don't want to worry you too much. Nobody thought she would make it through surgery, let alone this long. We're doing all we can."

"I want to see her." Bobby said with a tremor.

"She's right over here."

Eames looked down at her half-eaten sandwich, "I don't know why I sided with you instead of Bobby." She paused, rethinking the scenario from the day before. "I, I remember thinking that I wanted to agree with you; maybe it was to punish Bobby for some reason. I don't know. Does it matter?" She looked imploringly at Sledge.

"Why would you want to punish Goren? He's your partner. If you had doubts about the validity of picking up the student, that's one thing; but siding with me to punish Goren?" Sledge thought a moment, and then said, "You're in love with him, aren't you?" He sat back, defeat changing his posture.

Alex looked into Edward's eyes and into his soul, this man loves me, she realized. He loves me. "Edward, I don't . . . I don't. . ."

Silence hung between them. Emotions battled in Edward's mind. He scrunched up his wrapper and pushed away from the table. "Let's head back," he said plaintively.

"Edward . . . ," Eames started.

"Come on," and he held out his hand.

The room was incredibly small. The bed and equipment filled it. A narrow, portable, adjustable table covered the foot of Gleason's bed. The left wall held a short counter with a small sink. A single wooden chair with arms and a wide seat sat to the right just inside the entrance. The margin of room surrounding the bed on two sides and the foot was minimal. It was just enough to walk.

Bobby stood at the entry. He was struck at how pale Gleason looked. A sheen of perspiration glistened on her face and neck. Her lips were cracked and peeling. A cannula ran from her nose to a connection on the wall. Three bags hung from a pole, each with a thin, clear tube snaking to a junction that joined a single tube inserted in the back of her right hand. A monitor displayed numbers and moving lines. She breathed short, rapid, shallow breaths.

The doctor stepped in and lowered the rail on Gleason's left side, the right side of the room. Then she moved to the foot of the bed. Two steps took Bobby to her bedside. He set his jacket on the chair. He looked at her. "Can I touch her?" he asked the doctor.

"Of course," she answered softly.

As if lifting a baby bird, Bobby slipped his right hand under her left. "Honey?" he whispered. She didn't respond. "Is she sleeping?" he asked the doctor.

"Yes."

"Gleason? Honey? It's me, Bobby." She still didn't respond. "Can she hear me?"

The doctor nodded and said, "She's just sleeping. You can try and wake her."

"Honey, wake up. It's Bobby. Wake up, sweetheart." She didn't move. Bobby watched her a few seconds and then looked at the doctor. His rising panic was obvious. "What's wrong with her? Why won't she wake up?"

Dr. Creighton stepped beside him and laid a hand against his upper left arm, "She's just asleep. Her body is trying to repair itself, the body needs sleep for this to happen. This is not a bad thing. Just talk to her, she'll wake up. Just talk to her."

Bobby hitched back a sob. "Gleason, honey, it's me." Suddenly, he didn't know what to say. And then, it all came, "I'm so sorry this happened. I wanted to pick up Elliott, bring him in for questioning. He wouldn't have been there; he wouldn't have done this to you. This wouldn't have happened if I'd not listened to Eames and Sledge. I should have done what I knew was right. I should have trusted my instincts and not listened to them. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He cried like a child.

The doctor reached for the chair, hung his jacket over the back and pulled it up to him. She guided him into it and he sat. She left and pulled shut the curtain that served as a door.

"The ME sent this up, detective," the assistant said, handing several sheets of paper to Bishop.

She reached for it and said, "Thanks."

Bishop read through the medical report on Elliott Baughman. "Huh," she said to herself, "What do you know."

She saw Sledge and Eames turn the corner from the elevators. Uh, oh, what happened at lunch? she asked herself.

"Hey, guys, the ME report is back on the shooter. Come here, listen to this." The two detectives walked to where Bishop sat.

"His tox screen is positive for cocaine, amphetamines and marijuana. Rogers notes here that each of these drugs can induce paranoia, especially in individuals with a predisposition for paranoia." Bishop read silently and then mumbled, ". . . transient paranoid states . . . amphetamine induced psychosis. . ." Looking at the pair before her, she said, "We should go talk with her about this; it's all Greek to me."

"Goren called earlier and asked me to download the contact list from the professor's cell phone. I told him it would be on his desk by end of shift. I'm going to go do that and then I'll head down and work with you some more, ok?"

"Sounds good. See you later."

Jerry and Martin each entered different elevators, Jerry heading to four, Martin to the basement.

Martin finished the box he'd been working on before lunch. He closed it up, re-shelved it and took another. He was on envelope eleven of the fifteen when Jerry showed up.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"Find anything, yet?" Jerry asked.

"Not yet, I am certain there's a narrative with a similar profile. We'll just keep looking."

"It's too bad about that professor lady, huh?" Before Martin could answer, Jerry continued. "You know, I think Goren and the professor have a thing going on."

Martin turned and looked at his friend, "What? Why do you think so?"

Jerry and Martin spent the next ninety minutes reading narratives and chatting about women and relationships. They were like two girls at a slumber party.


	50. Chapter 50

Rune Alignment

Chapter 50

Bobby sat, slowly, gently moving his right thumb across the back of Gleason's left hand. It was so good to look at her. She's alive, she's alive, he thought, thank you, God, thank you. She slept. He watched the monitor. His left hand pounded, he'd left his pills at home on the nightstand. He sighed and watched Gleason's eyes move under her lids. She's sleeping, just sleeping, he told himself. He had the start of a headache. He closed his eyes.

He startled awake when a young nurse slid back the curtain, stopped short and said, "I am so sorry, I need to check her infusion site."

"Of course, of course," Bobby said, clearing his throat, straightening in the chair. "I must have drifted off."

The nurse examined the site on Gleason's right hand, looked at the bags, the tubes, the junctions, and then looked at Bobby, "Would you like to wipe her face and neck with a cool cloth? It feels good and helps keep her cool."

"Yes, absolutely, please." Bobby gently set Gleason's hand on her abdomen and stood up.

"Oh, here, just one minute." She left and was right back holding the sling. "Here, Dr. Creighton wants you to wear this all day, everyday, except to bed. Let me help you slip this on." The nurse, Julie, unfolded the sling, refolded it, adjusted the straps and helped Bobby slide his arm through and get the strap over his head and around his shoulder. He had to stoop and bend for her to get him situated. "My, you are big," she said without thinking and then blushed a deep red.

Bobby smiled and said, "How am I going to do this myself each morning?"

"Until this lady is well, you're on your own," Julie said with a smile. She turned on the faucet in the small sink and let the water run cold. She reached up, removed a small, pink plastic basin from a cupboard overhead, and filled it with a few inches of cold water. Then she squeezed in a few drops of green liquid from a white bottle. The room filled with the light scent of mint.

"Here you are," she said setting the basin on the table. She took a white square washcloth from the same cupboard and said, handing the cloth to him, "Just get the cloth a little wet, squeeze it out so it doesn't run all over and then wipe her gently. Keep the cloth a little wet so it's cool on her skin. The scent is pleasant and may rouse her."

Bobby dipped the cloth into the basin, squeezed and smiled at Julie. "I'll leave you to it, then." And she pulled the curtain closed behind her.

"Hey . . . h-e-e-y . . .!"

"What, did you find it?" Martin asked. "Is that it? Let me see –."

Jerry handed over the narrative, "Look, it talks about him getting aroused and rubbing himself in front of the interviewers. He was agitated; it's all there, just like you said. This is the guy!"

Martin flipped to the coversheet. "This guy's name is Clive Donahue."

"We should tell Goren. Come on!"

Jerry and Martin literally ran to the elevator. They were like two boys who found the key to the secret door.

"Well, what brings you guys over here? Where's the big guy?" Medical Examiner Elizabeth Rodgers asked as the three detectives entered the morgue.

"Bishop here can't read science, so we're here to find out about yesterday's shooter," Sledge answered. "And Goren is God knows where."

"I see," the ME said, snapping off the latex gloves she wore and walking to two rows of stainless steel, three-foot square, heavy duty doors with lateral pull handles set into the far wall. The group walked with her. Rodgers tossed the gloves into a nearby trash bin and lugged open one of the square doors. A rush of cold air escaped into the room as she reached around and slid out a stainless steel table with Elliott Baughman's body on it. A folded sheet covered his midsection and a smaller cloth covered the top of his head.

"Well," she continued. "Mr. Baughman died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, a twenty-two. He died instantly. All of the damage was to the left hemisphere; I'm guessing he was right handed.

"He put the gun under his chin, but not flush against his skin; there were no powder burns around the wound. The trajectory and resulting damage indicate he probably held the gun six to eight inches below his chin and in front of it and pointed upward at about a seventy-five degree angle, back toward his throat.

"He pulled the trigger, sending the bullet upward through the floor of his mouth, continuing through his upper palate, and severing his sinuses. The bullet entered the mid section of the frontal lobe in the lower forebrain, traveling just above and along the temporal lobe. The slug continued upward at an angle, entering the parietal lobe, essentially bisecting the frontal and temporal lobes. The bullet lodged deep in the parietal lobe at an interesting angle, or it would have taken off the top of his head.

"I found something interesting, too. His brain had excessive gyrencephalization." Rodgers recognized the look of 'what?' and explained, "The cerebral cortex is the outermost layer surface of the brain. The make up of the sulci and gyri on the cerebral cortex determines the degree of cortical folding." Still blank looks.

She looked at the three and said, with a sigh, "His brain was more wrinkled than most people."

"Oh," said Bishop.

"Uh huh," nodded Eames.

"Why the hell didn't you say that in the first place?" asked Sledge.

"Is that important?" asked Bishop.

"I am sure it is. But I don't know what it means," Rodgers answered.

The three detectives looked from one to another.

"The tox screen says he had a combination of drugs in his system," Bishop asked, "and it mentions paranoia? What's the story there?"

"He was loaded with three drugs, cocaine, amphetamines, and marijuana, any one of which can induce psychosis in individuals who have a predisposition for it. In other words, the shooter was probably prone to states of transient paranoia, manic excitement, and compulsive and impulsive behaviors. He most likely was easily agitated. He would imagine unrealistic scenarios that seemed very real to him. He probably occasionally acted on some of his imagined scenarios. That's most likely what this event was.

"Adding any one of those three drugs would significantly increase the severity of his paranoia. All three drugs combined would spiral his neurosis out of control. He spun out and vented his frustration, confusion, anger, and fear by shooting those he thought were out to get him or deny him what he felt he was owed."

"Jesus, you sound like Huang," Sledge uttered.

"Yeah, thanks. George knows what's coming beforehand, and I confirm his diagnosis afterward. I'm yin to his yang," she replied.

They digested all that Rodgers had shared. She continued with a softer voice, "I heard the professor who worked with the department was one of the victims. How is she doing, anyone know?"

Bishop looked at Eames. Sledge just looked down. Eames glanced at Bishop and then Alex said, "I guess she's holding her own, but not good."

"That's too bad. What is to be done with his remains? Any family we should contact?"

"We're going to have to search for next of kin in Wales. So, we're gonna have to get back to you on that, Doc," Sledge answered.

"Well, I'll keep him cold. Is there anything else I can do for you?" Rodgers asked. The three looked at each other. "I guess that's it then. Come by anytime. Always glad for some live company."

They said their goodbyes and left.

Martin and Jerry were waiting for the three detectives when they returned.

"Where's Goren?" Jerry asked. He was practically hopping in his place.

"Not here, so who cares," Sledge replied.

"What do you need Goren for?" Eames asked.

"Oh, you guys are going to love us," said Martin, his excitement obvious. "You tell them, you found it." He said to Jerry.

"No, you tell them, you remembered it."

"For Chissakes, will one of you just say it?" Sledge growled.

Deakins walked up and asked, "What's up?"

"Big news, I guess," Bishop said.

"Ok," Martin said, taking a deep breath. "You know that voice print we did on the caller?" They nodded. "Well, after I wrote the narrative and then reread it, I remembered a case I heard about when I was an intern, back in ninety-five and ninety-six. Same kind of wacko stuff, the guy was picked up for doing himself in parked car, they brought him in on another charge, taped the interview; he was all about finishing his art and wanting to have her – whoever 'her' was. Anyway, they wanted a voiceprint since he was so out of it. And – he had an English accent!" Martin and Jerry looked at the four others expectantly, eyes, mouths and hands wide open.

"Sounds like the guy you guys are looking for, right?" Jerry asked, expectantly.

"So, does this guy have a name?" Deakins asked.

"Uh, yeah," Martin answered, checking the narrative he held, "Clive Donahue."

"Well, see what else you can find on him, find out where he is and bring him in," Deakins ordered.

"Just the people I was looking for," ADA Ron Carver said, approaching with his overcoat across his right arm.

"Counselor, good to see you," Deakins said with his hand out.

They shook hands and Deakins asked, "What brings you here?"

"Well, I was able to expedite the search warrant on the shooter's place. I thought I'd bring it over and let your people get on it," Carver said, removing the folded blue document from his breast pocket.

"Hey, great, thanks," Bishop said, taking it from him. "Let me see who's in charge over at Baughman's apartment house and have them meet us to unlock his apartment."

"Do you have a minute?" Deakins asked Carver.

"Certainly."

"I have a situation I need to run by someone. In my office?"

The two men turned and walked toward Deakins office.

"Thanks fellas, this is a nice piece of work you did. It's appreciated." Sledge said with sincerity to the two audio techs.

"Yeah, thanks a bunch," added Bishop.

Eames smiled at the two young men, "You did good," she said simply.

"Glad we could help," Martin said. Then to Jerry, "Come on, let's go put away the rest of that stuff." And they walked toward the elevator.

"Ok, so . . ." Sledge said, "Why don't Eames and I go search Elliott's apartment when you reach the super or whoever at his place. You stay here and search this Clive Donohue fellow," he said to Bishop. "Even though this information is almost fifteen years old, something may remain. Use your connections at Interpol to see what they have on him back home. I'll get some uniforms and a photographer to meet us over there. Is this all right with you two?" He looked from one woman to the other.

"Yes, fine," Eames said flatly.

"No problem," answered Bishop. And to herself she said, it looks like you guys need some time to talk anyway.

"Good. Let me make that call." He gently took hold of Eames' forearm and guided her to his desk. "We need to talk. Let me get the troop set up and I'll meet you in the crash room. Go and wait for me. I won't be ten minutes."

Eames didn't know what to think, or do, so she headed for the crash room.

Bobby dipped the washcloth into the cold water, lifted it and squeezed. He tested it to see if it was too wet, gave it another squeeze and hefted it in his hand to position it just right. Ever so gently, he touched Gleason's forehead and wiped. She looked so hot, pale but hot. Her face and neck were sweaty. He wiped the other direction, and then moved to her face, below her eyes, along her jaw and cheek. He rewet the cloth, squeezed and did the other half of her face. He rewet the cloth, squeezed and moved the cloth along her neck, under her ear, around to the back. He pulled the cloth forward and down along her collarbone.

He worked so slowly, loving touching her. He began to whisper to her, "I love you. I've loved you from the first moment. Don't die, don't leave me. I love you. Honey, I love you." He rewet the cloth, squeezed and moved the cloth over her chest, down her left arm.

She stirred in her sleep, shifted her legs and turned her head. She took a deep breath and winched, uttering a soft "uhhh" as if the deep breath hurt. Bobby stopped wiping and watched her.

"Honey? Gleason, honey? Wake up sweetheart, wake up." He quickly rewet the cloth, squeezed and wiped her forehead again, "Honey, wake up. Gleason? It's Bobby. Gleason?" He wiped her neck, under her chin.

Gleason, turned her head toward his voice, her eyes fluttered and then opened. She blinked, moved her head back a fraction of an inch as if to focus and whispered, "Bobby."


	51. Chapter 51

Rune Alignment

Chapter 51

"I don't think our meeting in here is a good idea at all, Edward," Eames said as Sledge entered and shut the door.

He was to her in one step, he wrapped her in his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth. Her immediate response was to push away, but Sledge was much bigger, more determined, and had caught her off guard. She struggled briefly and then gave in, stepping into his embrace. His tongue sought its way through her lips and she moaned softly. Then her brain overrode her loins and she pulled her head back, breaking the kiss.

"Stop, stop it," she hissed. His mouth moved to her neck. "Let go of me." His mouth was under her ear, then sucking on her lobe, and she pushed away. "Edward, please, stop it!"

Reluctantly Edward released Alex but held her at arm's length. He was breathing heavily. "I want you so much, right now," he breathed.

Alex pushed his arms down, turned and stepped away from him. "Jesus, Edward." Her mind roared with emotions.

"What?" he asked, confusion mixed with anger. "Tell me you don't like fucking me. Tell me Saturday night was all a fake," he said to her back. Sledge absolutely loved this woman. Tell her you love her, you asshole, he shouted to himself. Tell her before she thinks all you want is her body. Tell her!

"Alex. . ." he started, but stopped at the light rapping on the door. They both turned. The door opened a crack and Bishop called softly through the opening, "Are you guys decent?"

Sledge said, loudly, "Yes, for chrissakes, what do you think we are – animals?"

Bishop opened the door entirely and stepped in, "Well, you never know . . . the stories this room could tell. . . Anyway, I found the owner of the building and he said he couldn't meet you guys over there. But, it's fine with him if you go in. He said he'll stop by this evening and pick up the warrant and sign the waiver." She looked at each of them, "Everything hunky dory in here?"

Sledge looked back at Eames who shook her head and headed for the door.

"Gleason, honey," Bobby said with wonderment. "Oh, honey, how do you feel?' He dropped the washcloth back into the basin and wiped his hand over her forehead.

Gleason looked at him and said, "I'm so thirsty."

Bobby's eyes swept the room and saw a plastic glass with a straw in it; he grabbed it and held it for Gleason to drink. The angle wasn't right and she was too weak to lift her head. Using only his right hand, Bobby tried to tilt the glass without spilling the water onto her chest. "Oh, this isn't going to work," he said with resignation. "Honey, let me get the nurse. I'll be right back." He set down the glass and stepped through the curtain. Julie was coming out of another cubical and saw him standing there. She walked toward him.

"Is everything ok?"

"She woke up and is thirsty and I can't hold the glass the right way for her to get a drink. Can you help me?"

"Of course," she said. Bobby stepped aside and let Julie through the curtain then followed.

"Well, hello. This nice gentleman tells me you are thirsty. Here, let me help you." Expertly, Julie tilted the glass and held the straw between two fingers, positioning it just right. She held up Gleason's head just a bit with her other hand. Bobby and Julie both watched Gleason take several sips. Gleason finished and sighed then grimaced, she shut her eyes and moaned.

"Honey?" Bobby stepped up. "What's wrong?" Gleason took several short, shallow breaths, almost gasping. "What's wrong with her?" he said to Julie, frightened again.

Speaking to Gleason, Julie said, "There, there, breath slowly . . . slowly. No deep breaths, Gleason, breathe slowly." Gleason lay back and slowed her breathing. Then to Bobby the nurse said, "Her left lung is still collapsed. The two patches will need to assimilate some before she can take a deep breath or even breathe normally. The lung tissue is tender where the patches were sutured, as is the wound on her chest where the repair was made. It's sore."

Bobby looked relieved and Julie smiled. "I'll leave you two alone." She disappeared through the curtain.

He watched Gleason lay with her eyes closed. He thought she had fallen asleep. He stroked her forehead and gently ran the back of his fingers along her cheek. She murmured and smiled just a bit. His heart exploded with love for this woman.

Gleason opened her eyes and looked up at him. He smiled at her, and her smile grew. "You ok?" she whispered.

"I am now," he replied. They looked at each other, speaking silent volumes. Then she noticed his left hand. Her face registered confusion; she moved her head again and looked harder.

"Bobby, what is that on your hand?"

He looked down at his hand and sling and then back at her. "Um, I, uh, it . . . ," his right hand came up and began to chop his way to the words, he two-stepped backwards and then forward. "Well, um, I . . . I broke two knuckles."

She looked at his hand and then up to his face with more confusion, then said, "Does it hurt?"

"Just a little," he lied.

"How did you break two knuckles?"

"I, uh, well . . . I –," he didn't want to tell her he slammed his fist three times into a brick wall. Just then, Julie returned with a cup of ice chips and a plastic spoon.

"Here, maybe you can manage this a little easier than the glass. Just put a few ice chips on the spoon and then feed them to her. She'll get the same amount of water, maybe more, this way and you can do it by yourself." She smiled up at him. "Ok? Go on, try it."

Bobby took the spoon in his right hand; it felt like trying to lift a log with toes. He couldn't get the spoon to sit right in his fingers. It twirled and fell to the tabletop.

"Oooh, I see, you're a lefty, huh? Well, all it takes is practice. Here. . ." She took his hand and wove his fingers around the spoon. God, she thought, his hands are huge, his fingers so long and strong. This is one lucky lady. Julie felt herself blush. "There you are. Now, scoop up some chips."

Bobby moved his entire body over the glass, and lowered his hand with the spoon attached. It felt so weird, like his right hand wasn't even a part of his body. He bent at the waist as he scraped the top layer of ice.

"That's it, good!" Julie said it as though she were talking to a two-year old. Bobby felt the happiness that that two-year old would feel. He smiled a huge smile and watched his hand move the ice from the cup. "Ok, now carefully give it to her." They both turned toward Gleason and saw that she was asleep.

Sledge and Eames rode in silence. Two patrol cars followed behind them, no lights, no noise.

"What's the number?" Sledge asked, as they turned right onto Murdock.

"Eleven sixteen," she answered.

Sledge slowed and they both looked for house numbers. "Eleven twenty-five, eleven twenty-three, it'll be on your side," he said to her.

"There it is, this green house," said Eames. Sledge put on the blinker and pulled to the curb. The first police car pulled ahead and parked a few houses beyond. The other backed up and parked a few houses behind.

The green house sporting peeling white trim with scrub for grass and litter for flowers in the dirt front yard, was typical of the off campus housing that surrounded the university. Owned by an individual who probably owned every house on the block and did as little as possible to maintain them, figuring college students didn't care about what a place looked like.

The two detectives and their entourage climbed the rotting steps. A cat sat hunched in front of the door, and meowed its welcome, then hot-stepped out of the way. Four mailboxes hung to the left of the door, three bore a name, none was Baughman. The front door was unlocked and Sledge entered ahead of Eames and stepped into the vestibule, Eames followed and the officers remained on the porch. Sledge knocked on the door to the immediate left. No answer, he knocked again. No answer. "Stay here, while I find someone who knows where Dead Boy lived," he said to Eames.

Sledge knocked on the door at the far end of the hallway. "Yo! Open up, I got us some weed, man!" he hollered. The first door he knocked on opened up showing a boxer shorts clad young man who was obviously drunk or stoned. Sledge was beside Eames in three steps he pushed the door open all the way and the student stumbled back. The scent of hashish was undeniable.

"Hey, pretty lady," the student said to Eames.

Sledge stepped in front of Alex and said, flashing his shield, "Ok, Prince Charming, you tell me what I want to know and we'll forget the fancy incense you have in here."

"Oh, no man, oh, no, that's not incense, no man, that's –," and he stopped. He looked at Sledge and Eames, saw her badge and slowly the student processed what was happening; the dawning of awareness took shape on his face.

"Yeah, that's right, we're the cops. Now tell me this, which apartment is Elliott Baughman's"

"Who?" the student asked and screwed up his face.

Sledge wondered, what is the ratio of dollars spent by this joker's parents to the number of brain cells he'd already fried? Sledge took a step toward the student and said, right into his face, "Which – apartment – is – Elliott – Baughman's?"

"Oh, Baughman, yeah, right, good dude, not around much, kinda quiet, comes and goes, sorta weird . . ." Before the student could utter another word, Sledge grabbed the elastic on the front of the guy's boxers and snapped it fiercely. "Ow! Hey, why'd you do that? Huh? That hurt, man!"

"Listen, I'm getting real tired of looking at you and smelling that shit you've been smoking in here. Tell me which apartment is Baughman's or I'll make you smoke these shorts. Got it?"

"Yeah, sure, no problem, upstairs in the front."

Eames followed Sledge up the stairs; the officers completed the queue. The line of people turned left at the top of the stairs and headed for the front of the house.

"Did Bishop say anything about a key?" he asked Eames.

"No."

"Ok, then, here goes." Sledge backed up against the wall behind him, took a deep breath and prepared to kick in the door.

"Wait!" Eames said; she reached for the doorknob and turned. The door swung open. Edward looked at her with a Bobby-look, sheepish and mildly embarrassed. Eames shook her head and mumbled, "Machismo, good grief."

The group filed into the small, cramped room, stood and looked around.

"Holy mother of God," one of the officers said softly.


	52. Chapter 52

Rune Alignment

Chapter 52

"Oh, she's asleep again," Julie said softly. "We should let her sleep. Why don't you go downstairs and get yourself something to eat in the cafeteria. The food's not bad."

Bobby watched his love sleep. He was hungry; he hadn't eaten anything this morning since it took him so long to get ready. He set the spoon of ice on top of the glass and said, "All right. After I get some lunch, I can come back up, right?"

"Yes, she'll still be here." Julie smiled at him, pulled back the curtain and left it open.

Bobby thanked her and she smiled up at him, "See you in a little while; the cafeteria in on B-one, first basement level."

He smiled again and walked toward the elevators.

"Do you believe this?" one of the uniforms muttered.

"Thompson, I want shots of everything on these walls, understand?"

"You bet. Jesus," the photographer replied softly.

Everyone stared at the walls, taking it in. Skin – animal flesh – covered very every inch of every wall. Pelts hung, stretched out as if drying, fur side against the wall, skin showing; pelts from dogs, cats, squirrels, a raccoon, others that resembled road-kill. Featherless, pebbly flesh from what had once been whole chickens, ducks, and other, smaller birds hung as well, stretched out as the others.

Eames looked up and caught a gag before it erupted. "Oh my God, look."

Everyone turned and looked at her then followed her gaze to the ceiling. The heads of the animals hung from the ceiling. It looked as though they hung from hooks screwed into the tops of their skulls and then hung from hooks screwed into the ceiling.

"Shoot the ceiling, too," Sledge muttered to the photographer.

Where is she? Where is she? I hope to God that she was not involved in that ruckus at the university yesterday. Goddamn American media won't tell us who was hurt, or who did it. What ever happened to their freedom of information act? Her car hasn't moved. It's a nice day, she probably walked to Belzberg. Or, she's still up in her little flat, safe and sound, missing me, wanting me. That big copper isn't with her, though, haven't seen him since Saturday evening; he's given up on her. My artwork put him off. He has no appreciation whatsoever, for my skill, my artistry. Damn fool, big lummox. Glad he's out of the picture. My sweet, lovely, stupid whore, where are you?

Bobby took a tray and knew immediately that this was a bad idea. He could not balance it with one hand. Just get something that won't spill, he told himself. He picked up a fork; he couldn't use a knife, wouldn't need a spoon, and moved to the food bar. Suddenly he wasn't hungry, this is too much work, he told himself. But the smell of meatloaf reached his nose and his mouth watered. "I'll have the meatloaf, please."

He reached for the plate heaping with three huge slices of meat, a mound of mashed potatoes, gravy over both, and a pile of green beans. The girl serving had smiled coyly, flirting with him, and then handed him two rolls and a bowl overflowing with cole slaw. He placed it all on his tray and slid it down the line. Bobby found chocolate cake at the end and set that on the tray as well. The tray was loaded. I can't carry this, he said to himself. He stood, looking forlornly at his tray, then to the cashier twenty feet away, and on to the tables and chairs beyond. He left his tray on the rail and walked to the girl picking at her nails, perched on the tall seat at the cash register.

"Excuse me," he said, "can you help me carry this tray? I'm at a disadvantage here." He lifted his left arm, indicating his handicap.

The girl looked up, looked at Bobby and then at his tray. "I'm not allowed to leave the register," she said. "Sorry."

Oh, great, he thought.

A woman with a boy of about seven had been filling a cup at the drink dispenser. She happened to look over as Bobby spoke to the cashier and then glanced back at the tray on the rail. She finished filling the cup, put a lid on it, took a straw, slid it through the hole in the lid, and handed the cup to the boy. She walked over to Bobby as he returned to his tray; the boy followed her, sucking on the straw.

"Can I give you a hand?" she asked him.

Bobby turned and said, "Oh, thank you so much. Yes, thank you."

The woman stepped around him and lifted the tray. "Hungry?" she asked with a smile.

Bobby blushed, looked at the floor and did a backwards two-step. "Uh, I know, it's a lot. The server was being very generous."

The lady smiled and said, "Well, you are going to need something to drink, especially with that cake. What would you like to drink? Coffee, water?"

"Oh, I'll come back for that. I don't think there's any place to set another thing on that tray," he smiled.

"Don't be silly, you can carry it with your good hand."

"True, true." Bobby looked around and spotted the milk machine. Good, cold milk, he thought. "I'll be right back," he said and moved to the get his drink.

The woman carried his tray to the cashier and set it on the rail there. The girl looked at his tray and began touching the surface of the computerized register screen. Bobby arrived and said, "This too. And that," pointing to the little boy's cup.

He set the glass on the tray, fished in his front right pocket, and retrieved his money clip.

"Eighteen forty-two," the girl said flatly.

He grasped the clip between the tips of two fingers on his left hand and tried to get to a twenty. The clip slipped, fell and he stooped to pick it up, whacking his head on the rail coming up.

"Jeeze," he said, reaching for the back of his head.

The woman chuckled and said, "You are having a time of it, aren't you? Do you want me to do that?"

"I'm sorry to be such a bother," he replied, handing her his money clip.

The woman paid, returned the clip and his change, picked up the tray and said, "Where do you want to sit?"

"Anywhere, really, you lead," he said.

"I see . . . I understand . . . certainly . . . whatever you find . . . that's not a problem . . . sure . . . thanks . . . bye." Bishop had talked to the folks at I24/7 in MCB at Interpol about Clive Donohue. She sat back in her chair and muttered, damn.

Apparently, Clive Donohue had no priors. Unlike Elliott, when the agent ran 'Clive Donohue' through their system, nothing popped; 'Elliott Baughman' had produced a litany of offences, starting young. The agent said he would continue exploring other avenues of inquiry and would get back to her. He sounds nice, Bishop thought.

So, now what? she asked herself. Ah, where does this bad boy live now? Certainly not in his car – God, can you imagine what that front seat, steering column and dash must be like? Ick.

Bishop did the standard runs through various databases and information systems. Nothing. I hate this part, she muttered to herself. Where are you, you bastard? She endeavored on.

"Thank you so much for helping me," Bobby said sincerely. "Please, join me if you like." He indicated to the other two chairs.

"Well, we don't want to intrude."

"No, please. It would be nice to have someone to talk to."

"All right, thank you. Geoffrey, sit beside me. Tell the man thank you for buying your drink," she said to her young son.

"Thank you," Geoffrey said softly, shyly.

"You are welcome," Bobby said. "Uhm, aren't you going to have anything to eat?" he asked, suddenly feeling self-conscious about the feast before him.

"Oh, no, no, we just came down to get this guy something to drink. Please go on, eat."

Bobby smiled and tried to manage the fork. He fiddled and fumbled with it as he had with the spoon in Gleason's room. He felt himself redden. Man, you should have gotten something like pizza or a burger, hand food, he said to himself.

The kind woman watched and smiled. "Please, don't take this the wrong way, but would you like me to cut up that meat? That way you can just spear the bites with the fork and swipe up potatoes?"

Bobby could just die, die! "Oh, man, I am so uncoordinated. No, thank you. I can cut it up with the fork, the trouble is . . . I, I can't get hold of the damn fork." He caught himself and shot a look at the boy, then to the boy's mother, "I'm sorry."

She smiled and shook her head. She watched him struggle. "Here, can I help you?" She reached across the table, and, like Julie had upstairs, wove the fork through his fingers and thumb. "There, it will feel more natural by the time you are feeling full. Go on, eat up." Bobby was so embarrassed.

"Thanks again."

"No problem. It's like teaching him when he was two," she said nodding to the boy on her right. "By the way, I'm Maggie, and this is Geoffrey."

Bobby chewed, swallowed and went to put his fork down, intending to extend his hand in acquaintance. "I'm Bob –,"

"No, no, don't put down your fork. Keep eating. Please."

"I'm Bobby," he said.

"We are delighted to meet you," she said, "Geoffrey, say hello to Bobby."

"Hello," he whispered.

Bobby smiled.

Everyone pulled on the latex and stepped to the side as Thompson shot photos of every square inch of walls and ceiling.

"I'm shooting this montage format so we can build a reconstructive mural illustrating the walls exactly how they are. I'll do the ceiling the same way."

"Whatever you say, just get it all," Sledge replied.

"Where do you want us to start?" one of the three officers said.

Eames looked around the small area. In addition to the bed, the room held a closet, desk, couch, chair, stereo on wooden crates, a short file cabinet with a microwave setting on top, and a double size mini-fridge beside it. "Why don't you take the closet, you start in the file cabinet, you tear apart the bed, chair, and couch?" Eames said to the uniforms nodding to each as she gave the orders. "Sledge and I will take the desk."

My God, she is so hot when she takes charge. Gotta remember that for later, Sledge thought.

The four men each moved when the tiny woman moved. Let's get this done, she said to herself.


	53. Chapter 53

Rune Alignment

Chapter 53.

"You are kidding," ADA Ron Carver said to Deakins.

"I wish I was," Deakins replied. "I've never had a situation like this before. Sure, I've had partners argue, and request new partners before. But never has anyone ever threatened to transfer out, let alone partners – and my best two detectives.

"Do you think they will actually pursue the requests?"

"I don't know. They are both equally angry with each other. Goren and Eames are such a perfect match; they balance each other. If Goren leaves, any department would be happy to have him. He's a dog with a bone on every case. But I'm not sure any one else could partner with him. He is different.

"Eames could go anywhere, and she'd fit right in. She's what makes Bobby ok. They are such a perfect match." Deakins wasn't looking for answers from his friend; he just needed to talk about it, out loud.

"Well, I'll tell you what, I will miss them both if they go anywhere. They have made me look good time after time." Ron looked at Deakins and saw a man conflicted personally and professionally. "Jim, things have a way of working out the way they are supposed to. Give it a day or two. Let things settle down. It may work itself out." Carver slid his sleeve up an inch and checked his watch, "I have to run. Let me know how this progresses."

"Thanks for letting me vent, Ron."

"Geoffrey, go get Bobby some napkins, please," Maggie said to her young son, and the boy bounced off the chair and ran to fetch.

"Thanks," Bobby said around a mouthful.

Maggie smiled. "So, are you here because of your hand?"

Bobby, looked quickly at his left fist, swallowed and said, "Um, no, actually."

Geoffrey returned and held up the napkins to his mom who said, "Hand them to Bobby, please." Bobby took them with a smile and a "Thanks."

"No, I'm here with a friend in ICU."

"Oh, I see. How is your friend doing?"

Bobby looked down and said, "She's improving, I think, but still not well."

So, it's a 'she,' thought Maggie. She sighed silently.

"What about you?"

"Oh, we're here visiting Geoffrey's great-grandmother. She's in her last days."

"I'm sorry." Bobby said sincerely.

"Well, is there anything else we can do or get for you?" Maggie said.

"No, no, thank you so much. You really saved me back there. Thank you again."

"Geoffrey, say good bye to Bobby."

"Bye," he whispered.

"Take care, Bobby. Hope your friend continues to improve," Maggie said, picking up her purse, taking her son's hand and turning.

Bobby stood and said, "Thanks again."

He sat and continued to eat. He was hungrier than he'd thought. He enjoyed his feast.

Sledge and Eames went through every drawer in Elliott's desk. They found nothing incriminating.

"Where do you think he did this?" Eames asked, indicating the walls.

"I have no idea. The basement, maybe, a workshop? Does the warrant include the basement? Can we search there?"

Eames checked and said, "Actually, the language is intentionally vague. I suppose we could if we have probable cause."

"Well, I think skin on the walls and disembodied heads hanging from the ceiling, is probable cause," Sledge replied.

Eames stood up, looked at the other officers, and asked, "How you guys coming? Find anything?"

"There's nothing here but student stuff," the officer said from the closet. "Dirty clothes, trash. No boxes, no papers."

"What's in the file cabinet?" Eames asked the other uniform.

"Just files with class notes, it looks like; a couple notebooks with notes from classes. He's got some really hard core porn mags in here, too; but nothing out of the ordinary."

The officer searching the couch and chair said, "Nothing in these but crumbs and eighty-seven cents."

Eames thought a minute then said, "Ok, let's close this up. How about you and Thompson coming with Sledge and me to the basement?" She nodded to the photographer and one of the uniforms. "And you two complete the paperwork on this place, lock it up and seal it. Then you can head out." The other two officers nodded and one left to retrieve the roll of crime scene tape.

Sledge stood watching her run the show. He was enthralled. She is a take-charge kind of person; well, she can take charge of me tonight, he thought with tremble in his trousers.

Eames turned and faced Sledge. "You ready to head downstairs?" She noticed an odd light behind his eyes. What, she thought, is he pissed because I kind of directed this search? "You ready to go?" she asked him again.

"Oh, I'm ready," he replied with a smile.

Bobby rode the elevator to the ninth floor and thought to himself, I can't believe I ate the whole thing. The doors opened and he stepped off the elevator, returned to the ICU and walked straight to Gleason's cubical. She was sleeping. He noticed a tray with a small bowl of applesauce, a small container of melting vanilla ice cream, and a small bowl of alien-looking green gelatin with suspended bits of who-knows-what floating in it, setting on the portable table. A small plastic glass of what looked like cranberry juice completed the meal. Time for her lunch, he thought.

He walked to the bedside and figured out how to lower the side rail. He watched her sleep. He slid his hand across her forehead and said softly, "Gleason, wake up honey. Time to eat lunch." She tuned her head toward the sound of his voice. "Honey, wake up. Wake up sweetheart," he said, a little louder.

Julie stepped into the room and said, "How was lunch?"

"I was hungry," Bobby admitted with a smile.

"It's good that you're waking her. Dr. Creighton wants her to eat something. Try to get her to eat the ice cream. It's cold and will help with her fever; besides, it's melting. She needs to drink the cranberry juice. Her urine shows a high concentration of creatine; she's getting a UTI – a urinary tract infection. We don't want that to progress."

The young, pretty nurse moved to the other side of Gleason's bed and put a hand on Gleason's upper right arm and patted gently. With some volume, she said, "Gleason wake up. Come on, wake up." She patted more forcefully and shook the arm a little. "Wake up, Gleason, wake up now."

Gleason moved her head from side to side and uttered a mild moan. Her eyes blinked several times and then opened, she looked from Julie to Bobby. She smiled at him.

"Hi, sweetheart," he said gently. "Hungry?"

Julie smiled and walked back to the nurses' station.

"Hi," Gleason whispered and stretched. "Unh!" she winced and curled her shoulders in toward her center. "Oh, that hurts!" she said with her eyes shut tight.

"I know, I know." Bobby purred, stroking her head. "Here, have some ice cream. It will taste good and make you feel better." Bobby reached for the cup and saw the cardboard lid pressed into it. Oh, man, he thought, anxiety beginning to rise.

"You have ice cream?" Gleason asked expectantly.

"Uhm, yes, honey . . . good vanilla ice cream, right . . . right here, uhm. . ."

Julie stepped back in and saw Bobby's consternation.

"Say, here, let me do this," taking the tiny carton from Bobby, "Dr. Creighton and Dr. Patel want to talk with you. They asked to meet you in the tiny room on the other side."

A flood of emotions rushed through his mind – relief at Julie's return, anxiety about talking with the doctors, regret that he didn't get to feed Gleason. He reached for his jacket and removed the pill bottle from the breast pocket.


	54. Chapter 54

Rune Alignment

Chapter 54

"Thanks for meeting with us, Detective, we have a few questions," said Dr, Patel. "Please, have a seat."

Bobby nodded and sat.

"What can you tell us about the scars on her back?" asked Dr. Creighton.

Bobby looked at the print on the wall to his right, sailboats on a sunny day. He wiped his large right hand over his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. "They were done by a former lover."

"The scars are a result of acid being applied to the skin with some kind of applicator. The design is far too complex and precise for any other way. Do you know who did this?"

"I have a theory."

"Do you know why she allowed it to happen? Was she in a cult or gang?"

Do I tell them she was in a commune as a child? "No, no, nothing like that."

"Then why would she allow something like that to be done to her?"

Bobby shut his eyes and turned his head as if trying to look away from all that he didn't know. "I don't know. Why are you asking me about her scars?"

Dr. Creighton hesitated, looked at Dr. Patel and then said, "Just wondering. We were thinking that maybe the scars had something to do with her erratic heart and fever."

"I found these in her purse." Bobby handed the amber bottle to Dr. Patel.

"Aventyl," he said looking at Dr. Creighton and handing her the bottle. "Well, that explains a lot."

"How much of this has she taken?" Creighton asked.

Bobby looked down at his left hand. He knew so little about this woman. "I . . . I don't know. I'm sorry."

"When was the last time she took any?"

Bobby looked down, looked away and just shook his head.

Patel and Creighton looked at each other. Then Patel asked, "Does she take anything else?"

Bobby stood and said, "I don't know anything. I want to help her, but I don't know anything. I'm sorry."

Dr. Creighton rose and stepped to the tall man. "It's ok," she put a hand on his upper right arm, "it's ok. This helps a lot. Now we know what we have to flush from her system. Sit down. Aventyl can be nasty stuff. A major side effect is bradycardia. This may be what is causing her erratic heartbeat. Detective, you've helped her tremendously."

Bobby sat and looked plaintively from one physician to the other. The three were quiet for a moment. Dr. Patel broke the silence with, "I am not sure the state of your relationship with Ms Wintermantle, but, is it possible to check where she lives and look for other medications?"

"Yes, I can do that. I can go right now."

"There's really no rush," Creighton said today or tomorrow would be fine. "Knowing about the Aventyl is a big step forward."

"Are you going to still take her back to surgery this evening?" Bobby asked.

Dr. Creighton sighed heavily, "We'll have to if her fever doesn't break soon. I don't want to wait if she has live infection inside."

"I would not be surprised if she has surgery," Dr. Patel added.

"I also found her insurance cards in her purse. I didn't have these last night when I filled out the paperwork. What should I do with them?" Bobby began fishing in his right front pocket.

"I guess you'd take them back down to registration and talk with the folks down there," Creighton offered.

"I am sure someone would make a copy of them at the desk out there and then an aide could run it down for him," suggested Patel.

"That's good idea. I'll make sure that happens," said Creighton and reached for the cards Bobby held. "I'll get these back to you."

The three rose together and left.

"I don't see anything down here," Eames said as they made their way around the creepy, dark, damp basement. "How about you guys? Find anything?"

An assortment of 'nothing,' 'huh uh,' and 'nope' came back through the gloom.

"There's nothing down here," Sledge said, "let's get out of here. That ok with you boss?"

Eames looked at him sharply and saw the huge grin on his face. She couldn't help but return the smile.

"All right, let's head out," she called to the others.

"I'm going to find you, you bastard," Bishop muttered to herself as she sought Clive Donohue's roost. She had tried every resource, database, contact she could think of to locate the man in question.

If I were a crazy sleaze ball like him, where would I stay? Somewhere cheap. Somewhere near the university. Bishop entered keywords that would focus a search of cheap motels in the university area. A list of twelve motel names, addresses and phone numbers popped up on her screen. Hot damn, she said to herself, lifting the phone.

The officers working in Elliott's apartment finished up and taped the door. They were coming down the stairs as the other four were coming up from the basement.

"Anything down there?" the shorter officer asked.

"Nothing. You have to wonder where someone could do that without leaving any evidence." Sledge shook his head, opened the door and stepped aside for Eames to leave. The four officers stepped aside as well.

They gathered outside on the front walk. The pairs of officers departed to their respective vehicles and pulled away.

"So, what do you think?" Eames asked Sledge, looking up at him.

Edward thought a minute and then said, "I think we should order in tonight, I pick us up a few DVDs, and I let you boss me around the bedroom. What do you think?" He smiled down at her.

Eames looked up at him, smiled and shook her head. She looked across the street thinking about what Sledge had said. She watched a young couple walk past a brick apartment house, holding hands. An idea began to take shape as Eames looked at the apartment house. She turned and looked back at the house number painted on the lintel above the steps, eleven-sixteen. Murdock.

"Edward."

"Huh?"

"Gleason lives right across the street."

"What? Where?"

"Right there, in that apartment house."

"How do you know?"

"Last night when Bobby and I arrived at Methodist General, we filled out the paperwork for her. Bobby knew her address – eleven twenty-three Murdock."

"Son-of-a-bitch," Sledge said. "Goren must be right, Elliott was the caller. It all fits: the accent, the rage, the porn in his room, not to mention the sick wallpaper and mobiles for decoration. He probably stalked her from right here; you can see that building from his window."

Eames said, "Let's call Jerry and see if any more calls have come in. If there've been more calls, since Elliott suicided, then someone else is out there."

They stood quietly for another moment. Sledge watched her thinking. "So, what do you say about staying in and watching a movie tonight?"

"Come on," she said with a smile, "We'll see."

Still in control, thought Sledge and smiled.

Bishop had called nine of the dozen cheap motels listed in the university area; not one had a Clive Donohue registered. She was dialing number ten when Sledge and Eames turned the corner from the elevators.

Looks like the tiff is over, she thought. "Yes, hello. This is Detective Lynn Bishop of Major Case. Tell me if you have, a Mr. Clive Donohue registered. Yes, I'll wait." Alex and Edward were talking in the coffee room. "Yes, room 14. . . Where is that room, front, back, on an end? What kind of car did he list? Ok, what kind of car does he drive? You've seen him come and go, right?" She listened and made a note. "Got it. . . Thanks. . . Under no circumstances let him know about this call. Understand?"

"Hey, guys," she said standing, "I found him."

Bobby had walked back to Gleason's cubical. She was asleep again. Her tray was gone, but another glass of cranberry juice sat on the portable table. He sat in the chair and stretched out. Jesus, his hand hurt. At least his headache was gone; must have been hungry, he thought; but he had heartburn like never before. Bobby set his right elbow on the arm of the chair and crooked his forehead between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. Suddenly he was tired. He felt depleted. It was so clear how little he knew about Gleason.

He looked up at the monitor screen. Everything looked bad. Her heart rate was so slow, forty-eight, fifty-two, forty-nine, it should be between sixty and a hundred, he said to himself. Her O2 level was seventy- nine, it should be as close to a hundred as possible, he thought. Julie had wrapped an automatic blood pressure cuff to Gleason's upper left arm, he heard the hiss as it inflated, the slight popping as the hook and loop tape expanded, the rapid ticking as it measured her pressure, and then the sigh as the cuff deflated. He watched the blank squares next to BP light up, eighty-five over ninety-two; Jesus, that low?

His gaze moved to Gleason's face, she was sweaty again. Her breathing seemed heavier than before. Don't die, don't die, don't die, became his mantra.

Eames and Sledge stopped talking as Bishop walked into the coffee room. "Everything ok in here? She asked. The pair said nothing. Sledge brought her up to date on what they found at Elliott's apartment.

"Good God, so what becomes of the, the, decor?" she asked.

"Don't know, don't care," Sledge answered.

Eames told her about Elliott living across the street from the professor.

"Right across the street?" Bishop asked incredulously.

"I know; can you believe it?" Eames asked.

"Bet that was no coincidence." Bishop added. "I found Clive Donohue," she offered.

"No kidding, where?" asked Eames.

"He's in a cheap motel in the industrial are near the university. I think we should go pick him up for questioning. What do you say?"

"We should search his place, see if he's there, if he is, we can bring him in." Sledge suggested.

"I'll call Carver's office again. Maybe we can do this today."

Eames added, "Someone should call Bobby."


	55. Chapter 55

Rune Alignment

Chapter 55.

"Detective?" Julie said softly. Bobby had fallen asleep again in the chair. "Detective," she repeated with a hand on his upper arm.

He startled awake, wiped his right hand over his face and cleared his throat. "Yeah, yeah. Jeeze, I must be wiped out," he said, looking sheepishly up at her.

She smiled down at him and replied, "Stress and worry can really take its toll. I was asked to return these to you." She held out Gleason's insurance cards.

"Oh, yeah, thanks." Bobby stood and slid the cards into his right front pocket. He looked at Gleason. Julie saw the shadow cross his face. "How is she? Did she eat ok?"

Julie didn't say anything at first. She looked from Gleason to Bobby. "What?" he asked.

"Her fever is climbing again. She began to vomit after a few spoons of ice cream."

"She's worse, isn't she? Her numbers are lower."

Contemplating, Julie hesitated, and then said, "She is no better, detective. I'm sorry."

Bobby crossed his chest with his right arm and tucked it under his sling. He shuffled in a square and looked at the floor. Julie thought she heard a nearly silent sob.

Bobby's cell phone shrilled and they both jumped. He picked it off his belt, flipped it open, checked the number, and muttered 'shit.' He sniffed and wiped his eyes with the last two fingers of his right hand before he pushed 'talk' with his thumb and said, "Goren."

Julie left.

"Hey, Bobby, it's Lynn. Where are you?"

"At the hospital. What's up?" he said flatly.

With a gentle voice, Bishop asked, "How is she? Any better?"

Bobby hesitated, took a breath and said, "What do you want, Bishop?"

Lynn was struck by his ire. "Uh, a lot has happened since this morning. We were wondering if you wanted to be in on any of it. Don't give it a thought if you want to stay there. We've got it under control."

Bobby did not want to leave. He was afraid to. However, he did want to know what they had found out. "What did you learn?" he asked.

"Sledge and Alex searched Elliott's apartment. That is quite a story. It looks like you were right about him being the caller. Everything points to him. Bobby, he lived right across the street from the professor. Sledge is checking with Jerry for an update on new calls."

He wanted to know more about the apartment, but he didn't want to talk with Sledge or Eames. "Tell me what they found in the apartment."

I knew he wasn't going to talk with them, Bishop said to herself. "Bobby, I think you need to hear it first hand. The photos are being processed now and should be in by the time you get here – if you're coming in, that is."

"What else?"

"Clive Donohue is living in a motel; we're waiting on a warrant now."

Bobby wanted to go and get that bastard, strangle the life and shit out of him. But, he did not want to leave her. He did not want to leave her.

"Give me about an hour. If I'm not coming, I'll call you back." He flipped shut his phone. His hand throbbed, his gut burned, his headache had returned full force, and he didn't want to leave her.

"This just arrived, detective," an assistant said, handing Bishop a manila envelope from the DA's office.

"Thanks. Hey, Alex, the warrant for Donohue's apartment just arrived," she said, walking toward Eames.

"Ok, thanks," Eames said into the phone and then hung up. "Good, we can move then. Did you talk with Bobby?"

Bishop hesitated and said simply, "Yeah."

Alex looked at Lynn expectantly and then said flatly, "He's still upset, isn't he? He's not coming in."

"I honestly can't tell you if he's coming in or not. I brought him up to date on finding Donohue's address and searching the shooter's apartment, but he seemed really distant."

"What did he say about the skins and heads in the apartment?" Alex asked.

"I didn't give him any details, told him he needed to hear it first hand. I said the photos would probably be back when he got here."

"What else did he say?"

"Only that if he was coming, he'd be here in an hour; otherwise he'll call."

"Did he say how Wintermantle is doing?" Alex asked.

"I asked and he ignored the question."

Alex and Lynn looked at each other for a moment, each thinking the same thing. Sledge walked up and Lynn showed him the warrant.

"That for cum-boy's place?"

Both Alex and Lynn closed their eyes and shook their heads.

Bobby returned to Gleason's bedside. He stood stroking her forehead. Please get better. I can't live without you. I love you. Please, Gleason, get better. He spoke to her in his heart. He walked to the other side of the bed, opened the cupboard above the sink and removed a clean washcloth. He turned on the tap and let it run cold, wet the cloth, squeezed it, shut off the water and turned back to her.

He cleaned her forehead, face and neck. He turned on the tap, rewet the cloth, squeezed, and turned off the water, then he wiped her chest, and down her right arm. He rewet the cloth and pulled back the sheet, moved her hospital gown to one side and wiped over and under her breasts, her abdomen. He repeated the steps and gently lifted each arm and wiped the underside, the armpit, down her sides. 'I love you, don't die, get well' became the litany he prayed as he cleaned her body.

"No, not a thing has come in since the redirect was installed. Her home phone was dialed several times, but no messages have been left."

"When was the last hit?" Sledge asked Martin.

"Late Sunday night."

"Man that fits with the timeline – no calls at all after the shooting. Son-of-a-bitch, Goren was right. Again," Sledge said half to himself. "Hey thanks."

Edward turned to leave when Martin asked, "So, that student is the shooter _and_ the caller?"

"Seems so," Sledge answered. "The caller and the shooter both have an accent, he lived right across the street from the professor – he was stalking her, so that made it easy to keep an eye on her. He was crazy; his priors from Interpol match the profile Huang developed; the skins and animal heads found in his apartment match the profile as well. Looks like the same guy."

"But you thought differently, in the beginning, didn't you?" Martin asked.

Sledge looked at the technician thoughtfully, and then said, "Actually, I did. Goren was convinced there was only one perp, this student Elliott."

"What made you think there were two people doing this?"

"I hate when Goren thinks he's right. So I usually play opposite him just to keep him on his toes. But this time . . . I honestly believed there were two people. A part of me still believes it, but in the face of all the evidence. . ."

Martin persisted, "But what was the evidence that made you – makes you still – think two people were involved?"

"Ok, I'm no shrink, and George Huang is among the best, but . . . why would a guy who has daily access to a target – the student with his teacher – use a second, completely different MO? In other words, the student saw the professor every day, he stalked her after class, on the weekends, he was in open contact with her, was in no way reticent. Why would he then use a completely different method of interacting with her – calling at night, leaving threatening messages, masturbating while talking to her? Why would he do that? See what I mean?"

Martin looked at the detective with tremendous respect. "Yeah, I do see what you mean. But I have to say, I can see where the same sick bastard could do both."

"I know, I know, I can too," Sledge said, "but I guess what really holds, or held, me back from buying the one perp theory is my gut. I just have a feeling it's two guys. Or, I did; maybe I still do. Doesn't matter now, because it seems Goren was right again."

"Thanks for talking with me. I appreciate you taking the time."

"No problem." Sledge turned to leave and then turned back, "Hey, thanks for catching the accent. That turned the whole investigation."

Martin and Sledge nodded to each other and Sledge headed back upstairs.

Julie stood just inside the cubical, watching the man. He didn't notice her, so involved in his loving task. That is one lucky woman, Julie thought, this is what love looks like. Bobby turned to rewet the cloth and saw her.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," she answered.

"This is ok, isn't it? Me wiping her like this? She looks so hot."

"Of course, that will help cool her. I need to give you this bag." She indicated the white plastic drawstring bag she held. A tag hung from the top. "It's her things. Well . . ." she checked the tag, "her shoes and a necklace." Julie looked up at the detective and continued, "Her other clothing was deemed un-returnable."

Bobby set down the cloth and reached for the bag. "Thank you."

Julie watched him, he is exhausted, his pain looks physical. "Are you feeling ok, detective?"

Bobby looked at her, "I'm ok."

The nurse stepped to him and gently put a hand on his right arm. "I don't think so. How is your hand?"

"It's ok," he lied.

"Well, I need to let you know that you will have to leave soon." He looked up sharply, she saw alarm broaching on panic. "Yes, I know, you don't want to leave, but you will have to. We need to begin to prep her for surgery." She watched fear change his posture, color, breathing – his whole being.

"Don't panic. Dr. Creighton has two surgeries before the professor. It probably won't be until much later this evening, perhaps later tonight, if she holds her own," Julie said, nodding toward Gleason. "We need to get some medications into her in order to get the Aventyl out of her system. That will take a few hours. She'll continue to sleep until sometime tomorrow afternoon."

Bobby watched the nurse and listened as she relayed all that was about to happen. Then he turned and looked at Gleason. She was shiny with sweat; her breathing was slow and shallow. She was the color of watered down skim milk.

"Go home detective, take another pain pill for your hand and lay down. You are exhausted. You need to be strong for this lady. You are killing yourself. Go home. Someone will call you and keep you informed of everything that's happening."

"Will they call me if she gets worse?" he said with tears behind his voice.

"Certainly; we'll call you before she goes into surgery if everything remains status. We will call you if she goes in quickly. We have your home phone, your work phone and your cell phone. And, you can call the desk at any time. Someone will tell you everything." This man is about to collapse, she thought.

"You need to go home, now. Are you ok to drive? Do you want me to call someone to come get you?"

"No, I'm ok." Bobby stepped to Gleason's side and placed his right hand on her forehead. She was shivering. "She's cold," he said turning to the nurse.

"That's the fever, she has the chills."

Bobby reached for and started to pull up the extra blanket that lay folded at the foot of the bed. Julie stepped up and took it from him. "Say goodbye to her, tell her you'll see her later. Then you have to go."

Julie set down the edge of the blanket and stepped back to the doorway, she looked out. Bobby could barely breathe. His right hand was shaking and his eyes were full, he felt like throwing up. He wiped her forehead with his palm and kissed her gently. I love you, don't die. I love you. He kissed her lips as a butterfly would kiss a petal. He picked up the white plastic bag and then his jacket. Julie heard him move and turned around. He looked briefly at her and she watched him leave.


	56. Chapter 56

Rune Alignment

Chapter 56.

Bobby slipped his right arm through his jacket sleeve and hiked the left side up over his left shoulder. He crossed the lobby and pushed open one of the glass doors. The smell of cigarette smoke assaulted his nose. God, it was good. He saw several people off to the right, puffing away, ostracized from the rest of humanity. He slowed, thought and then thought, what the hell.

"Say, do you have an extra?" he asked an older man.

Without a word, the man pulled the pack from his shirt pocket and shook a cigarette to the top. Bobby took it with, "Thanks." The old man reached into his pocket and pulled a lighter, flicked it and touched the end of Bobby's cigarette. Bobby drew it deeply. Jesus Christ is that good, he thought. He held it and then let it go slowly.

The old man watched him. "How long ago did you quit?" he asked.

Bobby looked at the man, smiled slightly and said, "About seven years ago."

The man retrieved his pack and shook out a few more, "Here. Take a few."

Bobby looked at the pack and then at the man. He warred with himself and then took only one. "Thanks."

"Here, take this, too. I've got another."

Bobby took the lighter, slipped it in his pocket and said, "Thanks again." The old man nodded and Bobby walked to his car.

"I got a fax back from Interpol saying Clive Donohue is not in their system," Bishop told the other two. "Hey, look who's here."

Everyone turned to see Bobby coming from the elevators. He looked terrible, his face was dark, he had bags under his eyes, they could see he was pissed. No one said anything to him. Bobby glanced at the group standing at Eames' desk, shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it onto the coat tree. He pulled out his chair and sat.

He closed his eyes and heard his heart pound in his ears and felt it throb behind his eyes. His left hand was on fire. His gut churned molten acids. "What did you find in Elliott's apartment?" he asked with eyes still closed, right thumb and fingers covering them.

The three looked at him. Finally, Bishop said, "Bobby are you all right?"

Without warning, he shot up, slammed his right hand on his desk and shouted, "What the fuck did you find in his goddamn apartment?" Each of them took a step back. Deakins was out his door in a New York minute.

"Goren!" he called, "In my office now!"

Bobby closed his eyes again and ran his right hand down the back of his head. He stood a moment then turned and strode to the boss's door. Deakins stood outside, let Bobby pass and then followed him, pulling shut the door.

Bobby sprawled in one of the chairs. Deakins looked at his best detective. They were silent a moment. Then Deakins said, "You are on administrative leave as of six o'clock this evening." Bobby didn't respond.

"Did you hear me, detective?" Bobby didn't respond. "Answer me!"

Bobby opened his eyes, looked up at his boss, wiped his hand across his face, stood and walked out of the office.

Deakins closed his eyes and shook his head. It's no use, he said to himself.

"He is wound tighter than a spring," Bishop said.

"The guy's going to have a nervous breakdown," Sledge observed.

Eames thought, I did this to him.

"He needs to –," Bishop stopped as Bobby approached.

He sat at his desk and the others moved to leave. "Wait, wait," he said and they stopped and turned. "I, uhm, I . . . oh," he closed his eyes, squeezed them tight and slightly moved his head to the right and back. "Any body got any aspirin?"

Eames said, "I do. Right here." She pulled out her top desk drawer and took out a bottle of extra-strength pain reliever and handed the bottle across the desk. He reached, and their fingers touched. Eames' eyes shot up at his and he looked back. "Thanks," he said.

Bishop returned with a bottle of water from the coffee room. "Here take them with this," she said, unscrewing the lid and handing it out to him. Bobby struggled with the pill bottle cap and Sledge took it from him, opened it and handed it back. They watched as he shook out four capsules onto the desk top.

"That's a lot of –," Bishop started then stopped as Bobby shot her a look. She put up two hands and shook her head.

He swallowed the pills and drained the bottle. Jesus, his stomach. "What's Elliott's address?" He asked.

"The warrant to search Donohue's motel room arrived this afternoon. Why don't we check out his place and then go to Elliott's apartment?" suggested Sledge.

Bobby thought, yeah, then I can stop at Gleason's apartment. "Sounds good to me. Let's go," he replied. "Bishop, we'll take my car; you drive." He stood, stopped, closed his eyes and raised his right hand part way to his head. The room tilted, he was going to be sick. "Give me . . . ," he didn't finish and dashed off to the men's room.

"What's wrong with him?" Eames asked, looking at the other two.

"He's exhausted, he probably didn't sleep last night. Probably hasn't eaten since last night. Probably dehydrated, you saw him chug that water. Probably out of his mind with worry," Sledge said to her.

The three stood silently and then dispersed.

Bobby yanked open a stall door and heaved into the toilet. Again. He shut the stall door behind him, flushed, and stood leaning on the divider. His head was going to split wide open. He heaved up again. Oh, God. He drew ragged breaths. One more heave and he threw up the last of any scrap he had left and then flushed. He waited a few minutes, leaning with his back against the stall door, head in his right hand. He wasn't sure he could trust his legs; they quivered as he stood there. He felt another heave rising and fought it down, breathing in through his nose and out from his mouth. No good, one more gag and toss and he actually thought he was going to pass out. He fell back against the door, he felt hot, sweaty. Jesus, something's wrong with me, he thought. He flushed again, turned and left the stall. Bobby staggered to a sink and leaned on it with his right hand. He was gasping.

"You ok, man?" Sledge asked as he moved to Bobby's side, actually concerned.

Bobby couldn't even look.

"Turn on the water, will you?" Bobby whispered.

Sledge turned on the cold tap and pulled paper towels from the dispenser. He turned on the water in the next sink and wet the mass, squeezing the paper a little and held the wad on the back of Bobby's neck. Sledge put a hand on Bobby's right bicep and said, "You're not good, man. We need to get you to hospital."

Bobby stood upright, "No, no." He forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply. "I'm good. Just give me a few minutes, ok?" He glanced over at Sledge. They looked at each other for a half second and Sledge bent to pick up the cool wad of paper towels that had fallen when Bobby stood up.

Sledge pulled more towels, wet them and handed them to Bobby. "I'll wait with you."

Bobby nodded wiped his face, rewet the paper, and wiped again. He scooped water in his right hand, sucked it, swished and spit. He repeated two more times.

He stood up and said, "Let's go."

The two women watched the two men walk back from the men's room. Neither knew what to say. Bobby didn't look at anyone. "Can I have a couple more of those aspirin?" he asked looking at the floor.

Eames, stepped back to her desk, opened the drawer, retrieved the bottle, opened it and shook two pills into her hand. She put out her hand and Bobby did the same, she dropped the pills into his palm. "Two more," he said. She shook two more into his palm. Bishop had gotten four bottles of water from the coffee room; she opened one and handed it to him. Again, he chugged the water, flooding the pills down his throat.

He glanced at his colleagues, "Ready?"

They were silent in the elevator. In the deck, Eames and Sledge went to his car and Bishop followed Bobby to his. He handed her his keys and went around to the passenger side. Gleason's bag was on the seat, the white plastic drawstring bag was on the floor. He swung both over the seat into the back. Bishop moved the driver's seat forward nearly a foot and adjusted the wheel and mirrors. They rode in silence.

"I think he may have food poisoning," Sledge said to Eames.

She turned and looked at him. "Why? What makes you think so?"

"The volume he threw up, his dehydration. I'll bet. It just has to run its course. He'll be ok. We have to make sure he doesn't become totally dehydrated."

They rode silently for a few minutes. Then, softly, he said, "Alex, we need to talk about how you feel about him. How you feel about . . . me."

Eames looked out the passenger window. She sighed. And said nothing.


	57. Chapter 57

Rune Alignment

Chapter 57.

Bishop led the two cars to the area northeast of the university, an industrial park with large warehouses, empty sheet metal structures, bars, porn shops and sleazy motels. Railroad tracks, dusty gravel parking lots, tall chain link fences with rusty barbed wire trim accessorized the depressed region.

Bishop said, "Here it is," and pulled into a parking lot of cracked and broken pieces of macadam and gravel. They bounced across, kicking up plumes of dust. She slowed, stopped and scanned the few cars scattered across the front of the building. "I don't see his car," she said, "he must not be here."

Bobby didn't reply. Bishop looked over at Bobby. "Are you ok?" Bobby nodded but he didn't look it. Sledge pulled up beside Bishop.

"He's not here," Bishop said through Eames' window to Sledge. "He's in number fourteen, there, next to the end on the right."

"You go park and I'll get the key from the manager," Sledge said.

Bishop nodded and pulled in front of number fourteen.

"Did you bring that water with you?" Bobby asked.

"Yes, here," Bishop replied digging into her purse. She opened a bottle and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he whispered and drank heartily.

Bishop looked at him, afraid to say anything. "How's your headache?"

Bobby took another big drink and barely shook his head. His stomach rolled with the water. Oh, no, please no, he begged. He shut his eyes and finished the bottle.

Bishop watched Sledge, Eames and the manager walked from the motel office. The manager was a short troll of a man, hair like that on a troll doll – straight up, the color of calf shit. He was completely round – round head, round torso complete with man-breasts, chubby round legs sticking out from long shorts. As they approached, Bishop realized those weren't man-breasts, the troll was a woman.

The pair exited the car together. Bobby opened the glove box and grabbed a fistful of evidence bags. He shoved them into his right back pocket and shut the passenger side door. He leaned on the car door for a second, waiting for the turmoil in his gut to settle.

Eames ushered the manager back behind her and stood to the left, in front of the door marked thirteen. Bobby and Bishop stood to the right, in front of room fifteen. Sledge filled the space in front of Clive's door. Sledge, Eames and Bishop each had a hand on their sidearm. Bobby stood behind Bishop because he was unarmed. Sledge looked at the pair behind him, Bishop nodded. He glanced at Eames, she nodded as well.

Sledge pounded on the door loudly and shouted, "Police, open up!" No sounds came from inside. He stepped back and said to the manager, "Just open it and go back to your office. Stay there. We'll let you know when we leave. Understand?" Sledge ordered. The troll nodded.

The nurse attached the new bag to the pole at the head of Gleason's bed. She unrolled the fresh tubing and connected it to the junction above Gleason's wrist. The nurse recorded all the numerals from the screen. She inserted a thermometer under Gleason's tongue and held her chin to keep her mouth closed. She watched the digits fly past ninety and slow to one-oh-four, then -oh-five and stop. She removed the thermometer, made a note and was surprised when Gleason coughed. She coughed again, winched, moaned and coughed again. She coughed again and moaned, then gasped and moaned once more. Oh, no thought the nurse.

Clive drove around looking for a new car-side pay phone. He also needed to purchase some kind of cream or lubricant. He had an open spot and it hurt when he really got going. Should have had that all along, he thought. Foolish, eager boy, shame on you. He figured he would need the lubricant for his upcoming times with his lady. She's getting older, now, you know and might need an assist with juicing up. No, he thought, she'll cream when she sees me. But, better to have it, than to need it. He smiled.

His mind wandered to the bitch. I wonder where she is, he thought. I am ready for you, my love. Found a lovely dispensing chemist with just the right stuff. Wasn't sure I was going to be able to find it in this country, such fucking stiff controls on every goddamn thing. But there it was. Oh, it wasn't out in the open, no, no; had to inquire. He was quite pleased with how that went.

He moved from thinking of her to his new design. How it would compliment his work on her back. The opportunities her silken abdomen, her just-enough breasts, her dimple of belly button presented. Oh, it would be exquisite.

But, he was tired of waiting for her. Tonight, he'd go and get her. Tonight, in just an hour or two.

Sledge and the two women pulled on latex; Bobby did not. Sledge swung the door wide open and stepped in. The gloomy room was dark. The air was heavy with the sick scent of stale sex. The hem of the black out drapes sat secured to the ledge above the air conditioner by the phone book, holding them closed.

The two women and Bobby stepped inside. Sledge turned on the bedside lamp. Weak yellow light illuminated the small grim room. Sheets and spread twisted in a heap on the unmade bed. Stiff tissues and wads of crisp toilet paper littered the floor around the bed; piles of it filled the top of the bedside table. Odd bits of clothing lay strewn about. Empty food containers lay everywhere; drained liquor bottles rested on their sides. A roach scuttled from the neck of one and darted into a pizza box. Porn magazines lay open on the bed, the floor, the nightstand; crushed and stained pages hinted at what had gone on in this bed, this room.

"Jesus," Sledge mumbled. The smell alone was going to hurl the wee bit of water up and out of Bobby's stomach. He stood by the door. Sledge glanced at the other man, "Let's be quick about this." Instinctively, the three moved to different areas of the room. Sledge took the bathroom, Eames opened the closet, and Bishop pulled open the top dresser drawer. Bobby leaned against the jam and lowered his head to his hand.

"She's coughing," the nurse spoke into the phone. "No, no production. Raspy at this point. I think it's pneumonia." Listening. "Ok, I'll call x-ray." Listening. "Right, I'll reschedule her after the films come back, see what it is." Listening. "Yes, I'll see to it." The nurse hung up. Oh, this isn't good, she thought. She called and ordered the mobile x-ray machine for a series of films of Gleason's chest and lungs.

The nurse returned to Gleason's cubical with an aide. She pushed a button on the bed control and the foot of the bed rose a bit. The aide moved to Gleason's left and the nurse was on her right. Each wrapped an arm over Gleason's and set a forearm across her armpit. They slid the other arm under her, grasped hands and, "on three," lifted and pulled her to the very top of the bed. Gleason gasped and moaned aloud and coughed with a wince.

"I know, sweetie. I know," the nurse said softly, then pushed another button on the bed control and the foot lowered. Another button and the head rose. Gleason was nearly upright. She coughed and her head fell back. Her breath came in rapid, short, shallow gulps.

The nurse glanced at the O2 count, sixty-two. "Hand me that mask," the nurse said to the aide, removing the cannula from Gleason's nose and lifting it over the tops of her ears. The aide removed the clear plastic mask from the plastic bag on the wall, handed it across Gleason's body to the nurse and they traded. The aide then pulled down on the end of the plastic tube running from the end of the cannula, removing it from the connector on the bottom of the short cylinder gauge on the wall. She grasped the end of the tube attached to the mask and pushed it up onto the connector. "Increase the flow to eighty-five," the nurse said. The aide adjusted the airflow and the mask fogged slightly. "Thanks," she said to the aide. The aide left and the nurse walked around the bed to check the gauge herself. Gleason coughed inside the mask and moved her head from side to side in misery.

"I know," the nurse whispered.

"There's nothing in this closet," Eames said. She turned to face the room again and glanced at Bobby barely leaning against the door jam. She reached for the plain wooden chair sitting beside the closet door and moved it to where Bobby stood.

"Here, sit down before you fall down," she said, placing the chair in front of him and putting a hand on his arm. She touched him without thinking. He didn't flinch or pull back, but allowed her to help him sit.

"Thanks," he whispered in an exhale. He leaned forward with his right elbow on his right knee. He knew he was going to be sick again before this was all over. He looked at the floor. Christ, just let me die, he thought. He scanned the floor, another roach made a run for it and dove into the darkness under the bed. Bobby watched the spot where the bug disappeared. He thought he saw something. He squinted and moved his head. Something is under there, he said to himself.

"Eames, reach under the bed, something's under there," he said to his former partner.

"Where?"

"Right there, at the foot. It's a bag or something."

Eames bent down, then went onto her knees, dipping her head.

"Careful, I saw a huge roach take cover under there," he warned her.

She turned her head and looked up at him with a horrified look. "Oh, thanks," she replied, not leaving his gaze.

He couldn't help but smile wanly back at her. "Go on, reach in there. Roaches are generally nocturnal. They only eat at night." You could hear the want to smile in his voice.

She looked into his eyes and he held her gaze. She thought she saw remorse. On the other hand, maybe he's about to hurl again, she thought.


	58. Chapter 58

Rune Alignment

Chapter 58.

"That's it, roll her toward her right . . . hold her . . . I can't . . . can't get this under . . . a little more. There, that's good," the technician said as the nurse and aide rolled Gleason onto her back. The bed was flat and high. He saw Gleason's back and stopped. He took it all in. The nurse watched his eyes move from the top point to the base just above her hips. His eyes moved to the nurse. She looked straight back at him and nodded imperceptibly. He looked back down and resumed his preparations.

The tech positioned the huge x-ray machine over Gleason's chest just so. He slid a negative case into the slot on the bottom, shrugged the lead apron over his shoulders, covering his chest to his knees and waited for the other two to leave. "Ready," he said aloud, pressed a button on the end of the heavy cord. "Clear," he said aloud and the nurse and aide stepped back into the cubical.

"You know," he hesitated, "I want to do another one, I think she coughed. Sorry." They turned and walked out again. He replaced the negative case with another and repeated the steps.

The nurse and aide returned. "Now we need to flip her and get shots from the front." The three professionals took their places. "Ready?"

Eames reached under the bed and carefully slid out a small white bag. She lifted it with the fingertips of her gloved right thumb and index finger. "Eames found something," Bobby said to the others. His voice was raspy from throwing up. The other two turned and looked at Alex. Bobby pulled the bunch of evidence bags from his back pocket and held them up for someone to take one.

"What is it?" Sledge asked.

Eames walked to the short dresser and looked for a spot to set down the bag. "This is disgusting," she said. "Let's look at it outside." She turned and walked to the door, stepping into the light and fresh air. Bobby followed her.

Eames set the bag onto the bonnet of Bobby's car. The three gathered. She carefully lifted out a small, flat, green bottle with a black twist on cap. She held it up and read, aloud to the others, "'Sulfuric anhydride. Caution: do not expose to air, moisture, or water. Sulfuric anhydride combined with water produces hydrogen sulfate.'"

Bishop asked, "What is that stuff?"

"Sulfuric acid," Bobby answered. He knew that was what Clive used on Gleason's back. He isn't done yet, Bobby thought.

"What's inside that bottle?" Sledge asked. "Something is inside."

Eames held the bottle up toward the sky and tilted it. "Looks like a swab of some sort. A little cotton ball attached to a stick or something; probably attached to the inside of the cap."

"Something else is in the bag," Bobby said. "What is it?"

Bishop lifted the pharmacy bag, reached in and pulled out a second swab, matching the one inside the bottle, just as Eames had described.

Bobby reached for another evidence bag. "We need to bag all of this. The fibers on that swab may match the fiber found on the envelope that was slipped under Gleason's door."

Tonight's the night, my love. Tonight, all the waiting is over. I shall come for you and you will give yourself to me as you always have. You will again be my canvas upon which I will illustrate my love for you. A new design for our new love. You will beg me to forgive you for running away. For taking that big copper into your bed. For letting him take you into his. And, I will forgive you. I must, you are weak. You are nothing without me.

Once you are mine again, you will never leave. No, never leave because you will never see daylight again. I must complete my artwork. None of this being smart, university work, writing, conferring, flying off to here and there, speaking at trials, showing off at museums. Calm down, he told himself. You're getting all riled up. Just another hour and she will be mine. Wait, be calm.

"Let's lock up here and go to Elliott's place. Then we can get this back to the lab and call it a day." Sledge looked at Goren. He's going to toss his cookies again. I can see it, he thought.

Bobby asked Bishop, "Is there any more of that water?"

"Sure," she said and opened the driver's side door. She plucked a second bottle from her bag, twisted off the cap and handed it to him.

"Thanks," he whispered and let the water run down his throat. God, that is good, he thought. He stopped and took a breath, holding the bottle in front of his chest. His head had stopped pounding, it was just a dull thud.

"Bobby, you should take it easy with all that wat-- . . ." Eames started and stopped as he spun and ran around the end of the building. The three listened as he spilled water, stomach juices and misery onto the cracked, broken macadam.

Bobby came back around the end of the building with his head down.

"You ok?" Sledge asked him.

"Just shoot me now, right here," Bobby muttered.

"You know, I think you have food poisoning," Sledge suggested.

"I agree, Bobby," Bishop added.

"What did you eat last?" Eames ventured.

"Meat loaf, at the hospital."

"When was that? About what time?" asked Sledge.

Bobby thought, "I don't know, about one thirty or two."

Bishop looked at her watch, "That was about two hours ago. The time fits. Do you have diarrhea?"

He looked at her like she was nuts. "No, I don't have diarrhea. I have this massive headache."

"Yeah, headache, vomiting; you've got food poisoning. I bet the diarrhea hits you later." Sledge offered with some satisfaction.

They headed for the dead shooter's apartment.

"Are we going to talk or what?" Sledge asked Eames.

Eames shut her eyes and sighed. "Talk about what?" she asked, knowing full well what he meant.

"Oh, come on Alex. Do you love him?" Sledge looked over at the woman he loved.

"Edward . . . I don't want to talk about this now. Please."

"Then when? This is going to hang between us. I want to know, do you love him?"

"I, I . . . I'm not going to talk about it now. Let's talk later. Tonight. At my place like you said, we'll stay in and then we can talk." Eames looked at Sledge and he glanced back at her. Fuck, he thought, she loves him.

Bobby rode with his head back against the headrest, eyes closed. Bishop stole a quick look at him, thinking he might be asleep.

"I'm awake," he said with his eyes still closed.

"How do you feel?"

"Don't keep asking me how I feel. I feel the same. I feel like I want to die. Don't keep asking me. Ok?"

"Ok, ok. Sorry."

They rode in silence and then Bobby said, "When we get to his apartment, park in the lot across the street, at the brick apartment building. Ok?"

"Sure, no problem."

"When we're done, you go back with Eames and Sledge. I have to stop at Gleason's apartment."

"Are you going to be able to drive, Bobby? Why don't I wait and drive you home?"

He was quiet. "Bishop?"

"Yeah?"

"Pull over, will you?"

She looked at him and pulled to the curb. He opened his door and threw up again.

Sledge pulled up in front of the run down, green and white house and watched in the rear view mirror as Bishop pulled Bobby's car into the lot across the street. He and Eames got out and waited for the other two to cross the street. Goren's stride was slow and heavy.

"We're going to have to re-tape the place when we're done here." Sledge said to the others. "I don't have any tape; do you, Goren?"

"Yeah, in the back." He looked forlornly at Bishop, "Uhm . . . would you get it, please? I, I don't think I would make it back. Sorry."

"Sure, no problem." Bishop started back across the street. She held out Bobby's key remote and the back hatch unhinged and opened slightly. Bishop dug around and found a partial roll. She slammed down the hatch and started back toward the group.

"Too bad those photos weren't back before we left." Eames said. "We could have skipped this whole stop."

"No, this needs to be experienced first hand to be truly appreciated," Sledge responded.

"Thanks," said Bobby, taking the roll from Bishop.

"Ready for the field trip of a life-time?" Sledge asked. He led the group onto the porch and into the house.

"Yeah, she's got nosocomial pneumonia in the upper lobe of her left lung." Dr. Creighton pointed to the foggy area at the top of Gleason's lung on the x-ray hanging on the light board attached to the wall behind the nurses' desk.

"I was afraid this was going to happen. Staphylococcus aureus is so hard to correct. We'll eventually have to open her to determine where the actual site of infection," Dr. Patel added.

"Well, it's going to be one or both of the patches on her lung, the one on her artery or the surgical wound. I'm betting it's one of the patches on her lung. What do you think?" Creighton asked her colleague.

"I fear you are probably right, but I'm hoping it's the surgical wound. That would be so much easier to treat," Patel replied.

"I'll make a note in her chart to flush clean the wound."

"Do you want to start her on cefepine or imipenem-cilastatin?" he asked.

"Let's start 2g IV cefepine every eight hours as an adjunct with aerosolized colistin and see how she responds. In any case, she's off the surgery queue until this clears some."

Bobby pulled himself up the stairs by dragging on the banister. It was hot and stuffy on the second floor. He was so thirsty, but he was afraid to drink anything knowing it would come right back up. He was soaking wet, his undershirt clung to his back under his sweater. His headache had abated somewhat but was making its way back with a vengeance.

"This is it," Sledge said, pulling the tape from the door. He opened the door and let Bishop and Goren enter first.

"Oh my God," exclaimed Bishop. "Is that skin?" She looked back at Sledge and Eames with a horrified look.

"Yep," replied Sledge. "Look up."

Goren and Bishop looked up. Bishop didn't say anything just turned and looked at the other two with an open mouth and eyes the size of saucers.

Bobby walked to the facing wall and closely examined what looked like the hide of a raccoon. He ran the fingers of his right hand lightly over the skin, flicked the edge of the pelt with his thumb, and then bent the tail. "Well, these pelts have been salted twice and the tails have been de-boned. He knew what he was doing," he said with audible admiration. He turned to Sledge and asked, "Where did he do this?"

"No telling. We searched the basement and found nothing. I don't think he did it up here."

"Oh, no he didn't do it here," Bobby responded, right hand illustrating. "The process is quite involved and requires significant time. First he would have had to kill, gut, debone and skin the animal completely, removing all the large areas of meat. Some animals, like rabbits and squirrels have little meat and are easier to skin." Bobby was on a roll, he swallowed, took a breath and went on.

"He'd have to remove the bone from the tail in anything larger than a raccoon. Salting and draining the flesh would require an incline plane and drip pan. I don't see any place he could set up that kind of equipment." Bobby looked around. "After the initial salting and folding for a day or two, he'd have to apply another thick layer of fresh salt and then dry the pelt with a fan." Again, he looked around and didn't see any kind of electric fan.

"After several days, the skin would be stiff and stackable. It will stay that way until it's ready to be pickled and then tanned." He indicated to the walls, "These skins have been salted twice, but not processed beyond that." He turned and looked at his colleagues.

They looked at him with bewilderment. "Don't tell me you earned a merit badge in taxidermy, Goren." Sledge asked.

"No, not at all. I saw an exhibit once as a kid and was fascinated. So, I . . . I just . . . read about it." He looked sheepish and half turned, looking at the floor. His headache slammed back and his stomach began to churn.

"What about the heads up there?" Eames asked him.

Bobby looked up and said, "I suppose they are the heads of the animals whose skins are pinned to the walls."

"No, I mean, how did he do those?"

"Oh, I don't know. I don't know much about preserving cranial structures. I would guess in somewhat the same way shrunken heads are prepared."

He looked back at the other three staring at him. "What?"


	59. Chapter 59

Rune Alignment

Chapter 59.

Well, well, well . . . look who is here! Long time, no see – as they say over here. What a surprise, the big copper's gas-guzzler. Did you bring her back to her nest for a while? Tired of rutting over at your place? I shall wait until you are done and leave; finish you off, and then I shall reclaim my lovely.

Clive pulled from his spot on the street into the second parking spot in the second row. He parked to the right of Bobby's SUV.

I shall watch for you to come out. I shall remove you from her life – our life – forever. Tonight she is mine and you are no more.

Clive stroked the barrel of the weapon as he had stroked himself so many times.

She will be so happy to see me. She will realize her foolishness. She will want me as soon as she sees me. I cannot wait. How shall we do it first . . . oh, I know – slam down on the kitchen table. From behind. So I can see my work. Yes, yes. It will be wonderful. You will see. And then you will die.

"Over here," Gavin whispered. "Look at this."

Gleason tried to jog to where he stood. It was so hard to breathe. "What?" she gasped.

"See? There," he nodded to the right. "There."

"Gavin, I, I don't see anything," she gasped. Can't breathe . . . can't . . . breathe.

"Come on." She felt him take her hand, leading her.

"Look. Gleason, don't you see it?"

Gleason searched, swept her eyes everywhere. She huffed and puffed. She saw a few old and broken trees. Can't breathe. An unsown field stretched to the right. Why is it so hot? More dead trees stood broken amid the muck of the swamp to the left. She was sweating, gasping. The sky above was dark – no stars, no sun, no moon, nothing.

Gavin and Bobby watched her search. Bobby? Canna . . . breathe . . . Bobby. "You don't see it, do you?"

She shook her head – no, no, I canna . . . see it, canna . . . breathe. Why is it so hot? Bobby?

Gavin and Bobby let go of her hands and Gavin walked away, "I tried to take you there, so many times; tried to show you so many times."

Then Bobby walked away, "It's always been right in front of you, but you can't see it. And now it's too late." Hot, so hot. Canna . . .

The four gathered on the walk in front of the steps. It was nearly dark. Streetlights blinked on, up and down the street, casting pools of amber light on the street and curb. Lights in the parking lot across the street winked on and puddles of blue-white light spread in wide circles on the blacktop.

"Here," Bishop said, holding out Bobby's keys to him. He took them with a nod.

He hesitated, turned to go, hesitated again and turned back to face the other three. "I've got to stop in Gleason's and get a few things." His right hand illustrated the sequence. "And then I'm going back to the hospital. I'm . . . uh, then I'm . . . taking a few days." He didn't mention that he was on involuntary leave.

"Ok," Eames said. "Are you sure you're going to be alright?"

Bobby looked at the ground, half turned, took a step and then stepped back. He almost said something and then glanced up with that sheepish look he gets. He nodded once and turned away.

He started across the street, walking slowly, shoulders hunched. The other three watched him.

Clive looked up into the rear view mirror.

What! Is that. . . ?

He straightened up in his seat and watched the detective step from the curb onto the street.

Oh my, my, my, my! What is he doing? Where is he coming from? Across the street? What is that . . . a sling? Look at his left hand! He's been wounded. How erotic! I wonder if he was hurt in the shindig at the university yesterday. Well . . . that'll put a crimp in his ability to hump my flower. He doesn't look so good. Poor thing. Hand hurts? Good. Where is he coming from?

Oh . . . . I see, he has another lover over there. Who are those people? Those three people, watching him. Were they together? Does he know them? Where is my darling? He's coming to his car. Now, now, I shall end him.

Clive checked the chamber. All full.

Bobby stepped up over the curb and onto the sidewalk. He fought another surge of nausea. He had to stop in his car and get Gleason's keys from her bag. Maybe he'd call the hospital and see how she was. If she was stable, maybe he'd just rest at her place a while and see her in an hour. He'd been gone less than three hours, he figured. He didn't think he could keep going much longer with out a rest. His head thudded with each heartbeat. The sun had gone down and now he was cold. His undershirt was clammy against his skin. His neck and forehead were damp. He shivered. He was so thirsty. Don't drink anything he told himself.

Clive slowly opened the driver side door and stepped from his vehicle. He held his weapon close to his side. He watched Bobby cross the sidewalk and walk up the driveway. He saw Bobby extend his right arm. Clive heard the doors unlock.

Here he comes, Clive thought. Here he comes.

Bobby walked around the back end of his car and saw the man standing between the two vehicles.

"Excuse me, I need to get in the passenger door," Bobby said when the man didn't move.

"Of course, of course," the man said softly and walked toward Bobby. Bobby stepped aside and let the man pass; then Bobby stepped between the two vehicles. He reached for the passenger door handle and felt his head snap back from a fist in his hair and the unmistakable feel of a gun in his back.

"Don't do anything, don't say anything you fucking bastard," Clive hissed into Bobby's left ear. Clive yanked his hair and head further back, and points of light danced around the edges of Bobby's vision. "Come with me." Clive pulled Bobby backwards from between the two cars, pressing the gun further into Bobby's back.

Bishop pulled open the passenger side back door and stepped in. Sledge opened the door for Eames and looked over the top of his car. Eames stepped in and heard Sledge say, "What the fuck?"

Bishop and Eames both turned and saw Bobby being dragged by the hair from between two cars. The man had a gun in Bobby's back.

"Bishop, call for back up, Eames you go wide and try to get a shot from behind. I'm

I'm going to face him off." The three moved as one.

"Have you had your fill of her? Have you fucked her every way from Tuesday? She doesn't love you, you know. No, no, not you. She loves me." Clive hissed into Bobby's ear, spittle flecking the side of Bobby's face.

"Only I can do what she likes. Only I can please her. She called my name, didn't she, as you jammed into her. She loves me! Only me! She is mine. You saw my mark. Nice, huh? Yeah, I thought you'd like that. Only it repulsed you didn't it. Made you limp, couldn't fuck her like you wanted. She laughed at you, didn't she?"

Bobby's legs were going to give out from under him. He couldn't even elbow the guy, couldn't trip him, couldn't do anything he was trained to do in a situation like this. He thought he would pass out.

Clive continued his rant into Bobby's ear as he shoved and prodded him toward the far side of Clive's car.

"Let him go!" Sledge shouted from the sidewalk. He'd crossed the street with his weapon pointed straight at the man dragging and pushing Bobby. "Let him go!" he shouted again.

Clive interrupted his rant and shot a look at the big man on the walk. Confusion reigned and he glanced right and left, looking for the other two – the women. Clive pulled harder on Bobby's hair, pulling some loose. He jammed the gun further into Bobby's kidney.

"Drop your weapon and let him go! DO IT NOW! Drop it and let go!"

Sledge could see Bobby's face, no white man has ever been that shade of white. Bobby's eyes were squeezed shut and he breathed through an open mouth. He was bent partially sideways.

Eames had trotted up the block and crossed the street out of their line of sight. She crossed around behind and came up on their far left. Bishop had done the same going the opposite direction. Sirens could be heard in the distance.

"You want me to let this piece of shit go? Ha! Never. He's mine. He took what is mine and now I'm going to take him out. Fucking bastard raped her. Stole her and raped her. Ruined her! She is mine, not his, mine! I even marked her as mine."

Sledge was into the parking lot and walking closer, keeping his gun trained on the mad man.

"Let us deal with him," he said to Clive. "Let us take him in and then you can have him. Do whatever you want to him. We won't even watch. He is a fucking bastard, you are absolutely right there, but we need to let you do what you want in private," Sledge bargained.

He couldn't get a shot without the risk of hitting Bobby. Come on, Alex, where are you?

Sirens screamed closer, louder.

Clive was struck by the other man's offer. They'd let me be alone with him? Do anything I'd want? No, that would never happen.

"You're lying! You are fucking with me. No, no, no. I'm going to do him right here. Out in the open. Then I can have –," and he went down, taking Bobby with him.

The three detectives ran full tilt toward the two men lying still on the tarmac. Sledge got there first. Jesus Christ, the bullet took them both. Sledge pulled Clive's body off Bobby. Eames ran up and fell to her knees.

"Oh, no, oh, no. No, no. I didn't. I didn't. No. Bobby, Bobby!" She was approaching hysteria. Bishop bent, put her hands on Alex's shoulders, then reached down and took her weapon from her.

Squad cars screamed to a stop and uniforms burst forth, guns drawn. An ambulance rumbled up, into the parking lot. A second jolted to a stop in the driveway. EMTs spilled from the vehicles.

Sledge stood up, moved to Alex's side, pulled her to her feet, and stepped her away from the bodies on the ground. He wrapped her in his arms.

Two EMTs knelt over Bobby and two others knelt over Clive.


	60. Chapter 60

13

Rune Alignment

Chapter 60

"Let's cool her down one more time. Get the cold tubes and sheet, will you? Pull those pillows. Let's turn her."

Gleason's temp had hit one-oh-six and she was in severe distress. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, her heart rate was frighteningly low, her blood pressure continued to drop, and her oh-two level was falling as well. Everyone moved efficiently, but without the haste of the hopeful. Gleason Wintermantle was dying.

"Yes, sir, Clive Donohue is dead. Eames took him out with one shot to the back of the head." Sledge had called it in. He told Deakins the whole story. "Eames is fine. She was a little shaken when Goren dropped as well. She's one hell of a shot."

"They're taking Bobby to Methodist General. . . . He's still unconscious. No, he wasn't wounded. . . . No, the slug is still in Donohue's body. However, the EMT said Bobby is dangerously dehydrated. They have him on two IVs right now. I guess his electrolytes, or something, are all messed up. . . .

"Oh, he's been throwing up all afternoon. . . . Yes, he started in the men's room at the office before we left. . . . Food poisoning. . . .

"Yeah, they're taking Donohue's body away now. The ME should be standing by. I think we should process his body quickly. . . . I think so, too. . . .

"Ok, we'll meet you there."

The bus carrying Clive Donohue's body traveled dark and silent to the morgue.

The other ambulance ran shiny and loud taking Bobby Goren to the emergency room at Methodist General. Half way there, Goren began to convulse. "Punch it! This guy's not good," the one technician hollered to the driver.

"We've got a police officer on the way in – extreme dehydration with convulsions. Get bay four ready. He's going to need a naso-gastric tube. Line up a packed cell volume test and FBC. He's coming in now. Move!"

Gleason began to convulse. Then her heart stopped. The crash cart arrived and they tried twice to jolt her back to life.

"Let's go one more time, 360 joules," the nurse said. "Clear. . ." Gleason's body jumped and then – nothing.

"She's asystolic," the older nurse said. The room went silent. The air thickened. Gleason Wintermantle was dead.

"Over here, bay four." The EMTs wheeled Bobby into the bay and a nurse whipped the curtain shut. "On three . . . ready?" the two EMTs and the male nurse lifted-slid Bobby from the wheeled stretcher to the hard, narrow bed. At once, the nurse began to fit the naso-gastric tube into Bobby's nose and thread it down his throat into his stomach.

"His bp is dropping and he convulsed on the way in. Heart rate is steady, though. Here, hand me that bag."

"Why's he dehydrated?" the nurse asked the EMT.

"The other officer said he's been vomiting all afternoon. He'd drink water and throw it up within two or three minutes. The other guy thinks it's food poisoning."

"Let's get another full bag into him, open it full bore."

"Do you want to call it?" a young man asked.

The older nurse glanced at her watch and said, "Nine fifty-six. Someone call Dr. Creighton or Dr. Patel."

"Wait, wait!" Julie said. "Let's try three mg atropine. Come on, fill it!" Julie stood with her hand out. Gleason's heart had not beaten for nearly six minutes. The older nurse filled the syringe and handed it to Julie and she inserted it into Gleason's upper arm. Everyone watched the flat line continue to crawl across the monitor. Then – a blip. Another. And another. A collective exhale blew life into the room. Julie physically slumped. Oh, dear God, thank you, thank you God, she whispered.

"Where is he? Find out where he is." Deakins met Sledge and the two women coming into the ER.

Sledge walked up to the registration desk with his shield in his hand. He tapped it on the thick glass and called, "Hey, hey!" The attendant turned with some attitude and then dropped it when she saw the badge.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"Yes. A police officer just came in here in a bus. Where is he?"

The attendant looked at a board behind her, turned and said through the glass, "He's just come in. They're working on him now. I'll notify the doctor that you are here. It may take more than a few minutes. Please have a seat." She turned around, putting her back to Sledge.

"Hey, I'm not done talking to you!" He rapped on the glass again. The attendant ignored him.

Sledge turned and looked back at the others incredulously.

Julie stood and watched Gleason's heart blip its way across the monitor. "That's my girl, you keep going. He loves you way too much for you to leave him now," she whispered to the thin, damp woman breathing so shallowly.

Julie slipped the oxygen mask over Gleason's mouth and nose and checked the gauge. She returned the cooling tubes to either side of her body; they had been stripped away when she coded. Julie wiped Gleason's face with a cool cloth and smoothed back her hair.

The young nurse stood and looked at Gleason with approbation. Someday, I want to be loved by a man like the one who loves you, in the way he loves you. You are a lucky, lucky woman. Julie turned and went to call Dr. Creighton.

Deakins looked at Eames. "Are you ok?"

Eames looked up and nodded. "Eames you did a great piece of shooting. You took out Donohue without hurting Bobby. You know that, don't you?"

"I know that."

"Bobby is going to be fine. It's just food poisoning. They'll get him on his feet in no time."

"I know."

Deakins looked at the tiny detective and knew she was blaming herself again. He turned to Sledge and said, "Look after her, will you?"

Sledge nodded.

"I've got to make a few calls. I'll be outside. Get me if they let us see him."

"Julie, you paged me? What's happened?" Dr. Creighton was cleaning up after an emergency bowl resection.

"It's Gleason Wintermantle; she coded, but is back. Her temp shot to one-oh-six and she convulsed. Everything fell and her heart stopped. We shocked her three times and then used atropine, three mg in her arm. She was flat for almost six minutes, give or take. She's stable now."

"Oh, gee. Ok. Thanks. Who shocked and called for the atropine?"

"Marjory used the paddles; she called the lady's time at nine fifty-six. I called for the atropine."

"Good call, huh? Ok, thanks. I'll be up in a bit. Thanks, Julie, you did the right thing."

"His colleagues are in the waiting room," the reception clerk said to the attending physician.

"Tell them it's going to be another hour at least." The attending watched the nurse draw two tubes of blood from the inside of Bobby's right arm. "Record those and get them to the lab for a packed cell volume and full blood count. Thanks."

"Hey, he's got an ICU card here with Dr. Creighton's name on it." The male nurse was cataloguing the contents of Bobby's pockets.

"Run him in the system. He may have had that hand fixed here. I'll call Creighton."

Sledge sat beside Eames. He put his hand on the back of her neck and rubbed gently. "You ok, Hon?"

"Edward, don't. Not here. Not now."

"Deakins said I'm to look after you. I'm looking after you. Let me get you something to drink." He stood and went over to the drink machine.

Eames knew she had probably saved Bobby's life. She knew she was the best shot in the department; everyone knew that. She had had no doubt that she would hit only Clive. Until she watched Bobby fall with Donohue and then stay down, that is. She was sure she had hit them both.

Bobby was so sick. He'd started talking with her again, there in Clive's motel room. She knew he was sorry. She'd seen it in his eyes. He'd even tried to joke. Bobby was so sick, yet he had tried to make up.

I can't leave him, she thought. We need each other. I can't leave him. I need to stay in Major Case and I need to stay with Bobby. He needs me. And I need him. I need to talk with Deakins. I should talk with Edward. I have to talk with Bobby when he's well. What am I going to say?

Dr. Creighton was on her way to the ICU to talk more with Julie and to examine Gleason. Her pager vibrated again and she checked it. The ER? Huh, she wondered. She stopped and used an in-house phone to call ICU. She left word for Julie that she'd been called to the ER and would be up in a while. Then Dr. Creighton headed down to the ER.

"Where are you going?" One of the men called to her.

"Hey, don't go. Come here, over here," shouted the other one.

Gleason stopped and turned around. She saw Gavin and Bobby standing side by side in the dusty road. I should go back, she said to herself. They need me.

The tall dry corn stalks on her left rustled in the slight breeze. She stood thinking, looking back at the two men waiting for her. She saw Gavin lean toward Bobby and apparently say something. Bobby faced him and the men shook hands. Then they embraced.

Gold, red and green leaves began to blow off the trees in the woods ahead and to the left of the two men. She watched Gavin wave, turn and walk away. Bobby continued to look at Gleason. She saw Gavin cross the crest of the hill and disappear down the other side.

"Gleason, are you coming or not?" Bobby shouted.

I don't know. I don't know, she whispered in her mind.

She watched as Bobby held up a hand in a slight wave and began to turn. "Wait, don't go, Bobby!" she called to him. Bobby stopped and looked over his shoulder.

Gleason began to walk toward him. "I'm coming. Wait for me. I'm coming."

"Here drink this," Sledge said, handing Eames a three-dollar bottle of water from the machine. She took it with thanks.

"He's going to be ok. Don't worry. They have him on all kinds of fluids. He's a strong guy. Don't worry." Sledge watched Eames' face as he talked. She didn't look at him.

"We need to talk, Alex. I know this isn't the time or the place; but I need to know where we are, you and me. At some point we need to talk."

Eames looked up at Sledge, sitting beside her, leaning in toward her. Edward brushed the hair from the side of her face and hooked it behind her ear.

"I can't leave him, Edward. I need to be his partner. I don't think either one of us would survive without the other. I have to talk with Bobby, of course, when he's well, but I'm going to stay in Major Case and stay his partner if he'll have me."

"He'd be a fool not to partner with you. This whole series of events changes everything, Honey. I'm glad you decided to stay with him." Sledge wanted to say, 'and what about us? Where are we, huh?' But he didn't.

He didn't have to. Eames looked at him deeply and said, "Stay with me tonight. Take me home after this and stay with me. We'll talk. I need you, Edward."

Sledge leaned into her and kissed her forehead. His heart and mind were full.

Dr. Creighton stopped at the nurse's station in the ER. "Someone down here paged me. Do you know who it was?"

The duty nurse looked up at the white board behind her and said, "Uh, yes, bay four – the police officer. Calvin said he had a card with your name on it in his pocket."

Creighton turned and crossed to bay four, pulled back the curtain and saw Bobby laying on the gurney. "Oh, no! What happened to him?" she asked the attending.

"Dr. Creighton thanks for coming down here. Do you know this guy? He arrived via ambulance following a shooting. He's not wounded, but was involved somehow. He presented here with severe dehydration from vomiting caused by food poisoning. His electrolytes have bottomed out. I called because we found an ICU call card in his pocket with your name on it. Is he a patient of yours?"

Creighton stepped beside Bobby and peeled back an eyelid. She listened to his heart. She pinched up the skin on his right wrist and watched it slowly, slowly return to flat. "Uh, no, not really. Not him. I mean, I set his hand last night. His girlfriend, or whatever, is a patient up stairs. She was involved in the shooting at the university yesterday. Jesus, this guy has had a hell of a twenty-four hours."

She looked Bobby up and down and checked the three bags hanging from two poles. Fluids were dumping into his system, bypassing his stomach. A dribble entered his stomach through the tube in his nose. "Does he have family or anything waiting? Other officers?"

"Yes, the three detectives he was with during the shooting and his Captain, I think, are in the waiting room."

"I'm going to bring one of them back here. They need to know what's happening."

Dr. Creighton walked though the ER, around the registration desk and through the automatic doors. She stepped into the waiting room.

The distance between Gleason and Bobby did not seem to diminish as she walked toward him. Why doesn't he come closer, she wondered. The breeze felt so good against her face as she walked. The rustle of the dry corn was comforting. She looked across the pasture to her right. The rail fence along the roadside was silvered with age. Weeds grew up against the posts. She looked along the low stonewall at the far end. Who is that? she asked herself.

"Bobby," she called, "who is that?" Gleason pointed to the small figure standing in front of the stonewall. Bobby didn't respond.

Gleason shaded her eyes with her hand and studied the far away figure. It's a little boy, she realized. A boy.

"Bobby, it's a little boy. Over there. See him?"

The distance between them didn't seem to change.

Dr. Creighton recognized Bishop and Eames. She walked over to the women and extended her hand. The three detectives stood. Eames shook the doctor's hand and introduced Sledge, who took her hand as well. Bishop nodded.

"Well, seems like you folks have had a busy few days, huh?" she said with a rueful smile.

"Seems so," said Eames. "How is he? Can we see him?" Deakins walked up and Sledge introduced him.

"Well, I'm not attending him. I was called down because the ICU call card was in his pocket with my name on it. I can take one of you back to talk with the attending physician. I can tell you he's still unconscious and may remain so for another hour or so. Who wants to come back?"

"Eames, you go," said Deakins. "Go check on your partner and then tell us what you find out." He smiled at her and she followed the doctor.

Gleason woke slowly. Her mouth was so dry. She sighed and shifted her legs. She couldn't take a deep breath – it hurt. Where am I, she wondered. She looked around and realized she was in hospital. That's right; I had an operation. She struggled to remember details. Bobby! Where's Bobby? He was in her dream. Her dream. Gavin was going away. And there was something else, someone else. Where's Bobby? "Bobby," she called, but it came out a whisper.

Eames followed Dr. Creighton around to bay four. The doctor pulled back the drape and Eames stepped to Bobby's side. She put her hand on his forehead and he moved his head toward her.

"Bobby," she whispered. She stroked his brow and he moaned. "Bobby?" Eames said a little louder.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Caldwell." Eames glanced at the man who stepped through the curtain.

"Is he going to be all right?" Eames couldn't take her eyes off of Bobby.

"He's responding well. He'll be fine. We want to keep him overnight, however, to make sure he remains hydrated and to get the vomiting under control. Uh, you are . . . ?"

"I'm Alex Eames, his, his partner."

Bobby moaned again and his eyes flickered. He gagged and moaned again. The doctor grabbed a sick dish, turned Bobby's head to the right and slid the dish under his chin.

"Maybe you want to step outside the curtain for a few minutes," Dr. Caldwell suggested.

Bobby heaved and Eames stepped through.

"Bobby? Bobby!" Gleason tried to call for him. Her voice was raspy and low.

Julie entered Gleason's cubical and moved to the bedside. "Well, look at you! I bet you are thirsty, aren't you?" Julie exited and returned in less than a minute holding a cup of ice chips. "Here you are, love." She held out a spoon of chips and nudged Gleason's lips.

"Where's Bobby?" Gleason whispered. "Get him, please." Gleason's eyes closed and it seemed she had fallen asleep.

"Gleason, you need to eat some ice. Come on, open up." Gleason opened her eyes and then opened her lips. "That's a girl."

"Where is Bobby? Please get him. Please?" Gleason's anxiety was climbing. Her voice, still a whisper, began to quiver. "Please go get Bobby. Where is he? Can I call him?" Her voice gained volume and she began to shift under the sheet. She winced as she moved her upper body. "Bobby! Bobby!"

Julie set down the cup and tried to calm Gleason. "There, there. Gleason, calm down. Gleason."

"Bobby!" She began to cough. She gasped. She was nearly hysterical.

"I need help in here," Julie called. In a second, Malcolm stepped through into the cubical. "Get me 2mg of lorazepam in a syringe, stat!" she said over her shoulder. Malcolm dashed out, and was back in a flash. "Stick her in the thigh muscle," Julie told the nurse.

Malcolm swept aside the sheet and slid up Gleason's gown. He jabbed the needle into her thigh muscle and pressed the end. Immediately, Gleason relaxed. She fell back against the pillows and her arms dropped to her sides. She coughed a few more times and then was calm.

"Thanks, Malcolm." Julie replaced Gleason's oxygen mask, and recorded the stats from the monitor. Come on, Dr. Creighton, she said under her breath.

"How do you feel, Detective?" Dr. Caldwell asked. Bobby was sitting up, legs hanging off the side of the gurney.

"I've been better," he replied.

"We have to stop meeting this way, detective," Dr. Creighton said as she stepped through the curtain.

"Hey, doc," Bobby said with a slight smile.

"How are you?"

"Sick. I feel sick. Will I ever stop throwing up?" Bobby was miserable.

"Yes, yes." Dr. Caldwell answered with a chuckle. "Your colleague thinks you have food poisoning. What did you eat last?"

"Meatloaf, here at about one thirty this afternoon."

"You last ate here?" Caldwell asked.

Bobby nodded.

"Oh boy," Caldwell and Creighton looked at each other.

"Can I go home?" Bobby asked.

"I'd like to keep you overnight, maybe two, to see how you do. You were dangerously dehydrated and you convulsed in the ambulance. We've loaded you up on fluids and I've given you a medication to abate the vomiting. We're waiting for a bed. Let me go see where we are on that."

"While I wait, can I go up and see Gleason?" He asked Dr. Creighton.

"Uh, no. You need to stay here, for now. I'm on my way up to see her. If she's awake, I'll let her know you're here. I better go. I'll check in on you later." She patted his leg and left.

Creighton stepped past Eames who had been standing off to the side, watching and listening. Bobby sat looking at the floor. Eames took a step inside the bay. He caught the movement and looked up at her.

They stared at each other, eyes locked. "Bobby . . ."

"Alex, thank you. Thank you for taking him out. Thank you for not taking me with him. Thank you for being my partner." He looked at her. "Be my partner, Alex. Don't leave me. Plea . . ." Bobby began to cry. Eames was to him in two steps. She stepped between his legs and wrapped her arms around him. He leaned into her and she held him.

"Bobby, I am so sorry. This is all my fault. Please, please forgive me. I am so sorry." They cried together.

Ten days later, Bobby took Gleason home to his apartment. He was ten days into a six-week leave – part sick, part involuntary; the details of proportion to be determined at a later date. Both were still ill. Estella's daughter, Minnie, served as nurse. She and Estella ensured that the couple wanted for nothing. Slowly, Bobby healed. Gleason more slowly.

Bobby had begun his post trauma counseling and his mandated anger management classes. A schedule of physical therapy sessions on his hand was prepared for when the cast came off. Also, when his cast came off, he was slated into the firing range to retrain his shot and get his score to where it had been or better.

Gleason's graduate student, Brandon, covered her classes. Bobby bought her a new laptop and she continued to work on her book. She spent her days quietly, even with Estella and Minnie about. She and Bobby seemed to grow quiet with each other.

Sledge and Eames grew together. They kept their relationship quiet, however. He stayed at her place more frequently. Their sex continued to grow more intense, creative, frequent, and hot. Sledge had never been happier. Eames was happy.

Deakins was delighted. His department was in order, his best pair of detectives was still in his department, and no one had transferred out. Even with one-half of that partnership on leave and the other partnered with a newbie from the oh-two, everything was as it should be. Even Sledge was less of an idiot. Life was good on the eleventh floor of One Police Plaza.


End file.
